X4LEa*^  from  ten 
POETS 


AT    LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


BY   THB   AUTHOR   OF  THIS  VOLUME. 

IN  THE  YULE-LOG  GLOW.  Christ- 
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WHERE  MEADOWS  MEET  THE 
SEA.  A  Collection  of  Sea  Songs  and 
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T^ALES    F 


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PORTRAITS 


.eW\\WWO'A?i  A'AAft.O'A 


philad: 


A'OBEK'T  BKO^'NIN^:^ 


ALES  FROM  TEN 
POETS.  BY  HAR- 
RISON  S.    MORRIS 


I  ( 


IN   THREE  BOOKS 


WITH    PORTRAITS 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.   B.  LiPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1898 

■>  l'^    ^     /'^  r'    /'^    .^  i      i  r-  ^'.  I'l  !,  i  i    .'. 

3        i      J        J         >  1  1    1  1  J  }     :>i 

J   J        3  3    J     ;>      ■■       J             J  3            J       » 

JJ333-'                   3>         3  3,           •'3 

1      .      >         I      ^     )      ^        ^    >       .                  1  ,                          ^ 


J      -*      )  '  J 


Copyright,  1S92, 

BV 

J.  B.  LippiNcoTT  Company. 


k     »     •        •     •        ». 
•      V     »     *■*■     •        • 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company.  Philadeiphia. 


PR 

V\%3'V 

A  WORD  TO  THE   READER. 


There  is  a  docp-grained  love  in  humanity  for 
a  story  pure  and  Himple.  The  fireside  gossip 
who  dishes  up  the  sweet  morsels  of  the  past, 
has  little  art  at  his  command.  He  can  give 
nothing  save  the  bare  skeleton  of  a  tradition, 
a  tragedy,  or  a  bit  of  drollery.  His  are  the 
broadest  and  ruggedest  of  touches,  and  he  has 
gained  his  end  and  pleased  his  audience  if 
he  has  only  sketched,  in  boldest  outline,  facts 
whose  interest  lies  solely  in  themselves  and 
their  relative  arrangement. 

Art,  however,  is  quite  another  and  a  nobler 
thing.  The  simple  facts  which  jut  up  from 
human  intercourse  like  rough  boulders,  become, 
after  a  while,  covered  and  softened  with  the 
foliage  and  minute  mosses  of  art.  The  prosaic 
outlines  pass  away  into  something  no  less  true, 
but  lovelier  and  finer.  The  rock  beneath  gives 
endurance.  The  grass  above  brings  appealing 
beauty,  and  this  renders  the  endurance  forever 
precious. 

In  the  pages  to  come,  the  reader  who  loves 

3 


4  A    Word  to  the  Reader. 

a  story  for  its  own  sake  may  find,  if  he  pleases, 
the  enduring  rock  stripped  of  its  verdurous 
robe,  the  story  laid  bare  of  its  artistic  medium 
and  made  to  stand  by  itself.  He  may  see  what 
durable  foundations  lie  beneath  the  great 
achievements  of  poetic  art  which  belong  to 
our  own  century  and  our  own  tongue;  and 
he  will,  moreover, — for  the  thing  is  assured  to 
the  man  or  woman  of  taste  who  enters  even 
in  so  rudimentary  a  manner  upon  the  perusal 
of  these  noble  masterpieces, — he  will  perforce 
find  himself  led  by  their  indestructible  charm 
into  an  elevating  desire  to  know  the  poems 
themselves. 

In  needless  apology  for  re-immortalizing  the 
old  story  of  Endymion,  Keats  wrote,  "  I  hope  I 
have  not  at  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful 
mythology  of  Greece  and  dulled  its  brightness." 
I,  likewise,  but  in  needed  apology,  hope  that  I 
have  not  dulled  the  brightness  of  these  beauti- 
ful creations  of  the  age  of  Victoria  by  render- 
ing them  into  unsympathetic  prose.  To  one 
who  cares  for  them  and  holds  them  dear  as 
among  the  most  lasting  and  subtile  products  of 
our  contemporary  life,  it  is  an  irreverent  act  to 
sever  them  from  their  natural  settings.  Yet 
Mr.  Andrew  Lang  finds  it  in  his  heart  to  justify 
the  act.  "  So  determined  are  we  not  to  read 
tales  in  verse,"  says  he,  "  that  prose  renderings, 


A   Word  to  the  Reader.  5 

even  of  the  epics,  nay,  even  of  the  Attic  dramas, 
have  come  more  or  less  into  vogue." 

With  this  genial  endorsement,  then,  and  with 
the  hope  that  these  prose  versions  may  lead 
every  reader  who  is  not  already  acquainted  with 
them  to  a  knowledge  of  the  famous  originals,  I 
submit  them  to  an  age  which  has  been  called 
scientific  because  it  too  often  disregards  what  is 
beautiful  simply  for  being  so. 

I  have  tried  to  adhere  to  the  central  idea,  and 
even  the  detail,  of  each  poem,  as  strictly  as  was 
consistent  with  the  production  of  a  well-rounded 
and  complete  tale  in  prose.  Entertainment  and 
diversion  must  be  the  chief  aim  in  such  a  collec- 
tion as  this,  and  where  the  more  complex  effects 
allowed  to  a  poem  have  hindered  the  develop- 
ment of  the  prose  story,  I  have,  but  with  a 
reverent  touch,  endeavored  to  disengage  the 
story  and  let  it  tell  itself  straight  on  to  the 
climax. 

Much  is  lost  by  such  a  process  to  those  who 
love  poetry ;  but  to  those  who  care  for  the  rea- 
son without  the  rhyme  there  is — should  the 
teller  have  done  justice  to  the  tale — infinite 
store  of  delight  still  left. 

H.  S.  M. 


1* 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  1. 

PAGE 

The  King  and  the  Book.     Robert  Browning  .  13 

The  Princess.     Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 83 

Rose  Mary.     Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti    ......  145 

The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.     William  Morris  ...  167 


BOOK  II. 

Enoch  Arden.     Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 7 

A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.     Robert  Browning  .  41 

Aurora  Leigh.     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning    .    .  95 

Sohrab  and  Rustum.     Matthew  Arnold    ....  191 

The  Two  Babes.     Robert  Buchanan 218 


BOOK  III. 

Tristram  of  Lyonesse.     Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne   7 

LuciLE.     Lord  Lytton  {Oiven  Meredith) 67 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.     George  Eliot 185 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOOK  1. 

PAGE 

Robert  Browning Frontispiece. 

Dantk  Gabriel  Rossetti 145 

William  Morris 167 


BOOK  II. 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson Frontispiece. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 95 

Matthew  Arnold 191 

Robert  Buchanan 213 


BOOK  III. 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  .    .  Frontispiece. 

Lord  Lytton  (Owen  Meredith) G7 

George  Eliot 186 

8 


THE  FIRST  BOOK. 


THE    RING   AND  THE   BOOK. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


.  "J 


■»     >        -> 


•  ,)  '     >     '    J      >    .  O     J      O  *  O  '      J      '  J    5       -  5      3     )     '     > 


THE   RING  AND  THE   BOOK. 


The  Comparini,  man  and  wife,  Pietro  and  Vio- 
lante,  were  yesterday  as  happy  as  any  prosper- 
ous couple  in  Rome.  To-day  they  lie  dead  in 
the  church  of  San  Lorenzo  in  Lucina. 

Crowds  from  the  populous  Corso  have 
streamed  into  the  aisles  all  day  long  to  have 
a  look  at  the  murdered  pair,  where  they  rest 
on  either  side  of  the  altar.  There  is  an  endless 
buzz  of  question  and  counter-question,  of  curi- 
osity and  8ymj)athy,  and  of  hot  vengeance 
uttered  against  Count  Guido  Franceschini,  who 
is  known  to  have  done  the  deed. 

It  is  a  motley  throng  inside  the  old  church. 
Here  the  scarlet  robe  of  a  cardinal  moves  down 
the  midst  of  dark-cloaked  idlers  from  the  streets ; 
over  there,  in  faded  homespun,  lounges  some 
peasant  come  into  town  for  the  holiday.  They 
push  on  to  the  chancel,  throw  up  their  eyes, 
cross  themselves,  look  hastily  at  the  dead  and 
the   notched  triangular  dagger  lying   at  their 

13 


14  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

''',',  '  c     c     c        t     ,         , 

<    '      €  t  «t<«'«c  * 

feet,' and  tHcR  'jviV^  place  to  the  pressing  lines 
,  bq hind,  AH  the  world  know  the  old  i^air,  and 
■  all  the  world  hass  come  to  talk  the  tragedy  over. 
Once  within,  they  find  it  hard  to  leave.  They 
have  climbed  the  columns,  and  perched  them- 
selves on  the  chapel-rail,  jumped  over  and 
broken  the  painted  wood-work,  crammed  the 
organ-loft,  and  literally  packed  every  corner  of 
the  sacred  place. 

"  Not  in  seventy  years,"  says  toothless  Luca 
Cini,  bending  on  his  staff, — "  not  in  all  the 
seventy  years  I  have  seen  bodies  set  forth  has 
there  been  a  day  like  it." 

Now  this  is  the  story  of  those  two,  lying  there 
with  faces  stabbed  out  of  recognition  by  an 
enemy  who  thus  vindicated  his  honor,  according 
to  the  wont  of  the  noblemen  of  his  day. 

It  was  the  year  of  our  Lord  1679,  and  Eome 
was  the  religious  centre  of  the  world.  Pope 
Innocent  the  Twelfth  sat  upon  the  papal  throne, 
a  feeble  old  man  who  ruled  benignly  but  firmly 
the  great  realm,  both  spiritual  and  temporal, 
which  belonged  to  the  church.  In  his  service 
were  numberless  prelates  high  and  low,  and  a 
throng  of  nuns  and  monks  and  friars,  who  car- 
ried the  ecclesiastical  power  into  every  rank 
of  society.  They  were  the  judges  in  the  city 
courts,   the   officers  of  the   municipal   govern- 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  15 

ment,  the  scholars  who  preserved  and  taught 
the  older  learning,  and  they  led,  moreover,  the 
social  world  of  Eonie,  whether  it  dwelt  in  the 
palaces  of  the  Corso  or  lived  a  simpler  life  in 
the  Via  Vittoria. 

And  in  the  Via  Vittoria,  plain,  substantial,  the 
abode  of  good  citizens  who  had  wealth  enough 
to  bring  them  leisure,  even  if  too  little  to  in- 
dulge in  many  luxuries, — in  this  pleasant  thor- 
oughfare lived  Pietro  and  Violante  Comparini. 
They  had  been  born  in  that  quarter  of  the  city 
seventy-odd  years  before,  and  remained  there 
throughout  their  lives.  They,  like  all  the  rest 
around  them,  married  young,  but  they  were 
childless,  and  this  was  a  disappointment  to 
Pietro  and  a  distress  to  his  good  wife,  for 
Pietro's  wealth,  such  as  it  was,  belonged  to  him 
only  during  his  life,  and  would  pass  into  the 
hands  of  some  distant  heir  when  he  should  die. 
Yet  they  had  led  a  careless  and  happy  existence 
in  their  city  house  and  in  the  villa  out  in  the 
Pauline  district  just  beyond  the  walls.  This 
rural  place  Pietro  had  bought  to  retire  to  for 
little  frolics  such  as  men  in  his  condition  loved 
to  plan  with  congenial  friends  who  had  a  tooth 
for  good  wine  and  loved  free  laughter.  But  with 
its  dark  sides  hidden  in  foliage  and  thick  trees 
overhanging  its  roof,  the  villa  was  after  all  just 
the  place  to  put  murder  into  an  enemy's  head. 


16  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Such  idle  living  is,  however,  a  costly  thing 
even  if  one  have  an  ample  income  to  draw  upon, 
and  the  funds  of  the  Comparini  were  not  by 
any  means  inexhaustible.  As  the  years  went 
by  they  began  to  feel  the  drain  upon  their  re- 
sources, and  before  very  long  they  actually  found 
themselves  in  debt.  So,  like  most  people  who 
have  gained  a  distinction  for  liberality  among 
neighbors  and  friends,  they  clung  blindly  to  the 
reputation,  and  continued  to  load  their  board  for 
flattering  guests  even  while  they  held  out  their 
hands  for  the  papal  bounty,  which  in  that  day 
was  dispensed  to  the  needy  who  were  too  re- 
spectable to  beg. 

But  the  sole  way  out  of  the  dilemma  was  to 
secure  an  heir.  Pietro's  income  was  exhausted, 
that  was  plain  enough.  The  original  wealth 
whence  it  was  drawn,  however,  remained  in  the 
custody  of  the  law,  and  should  the  miracle  ever 
occur  that  he  and  Violante  might  still  have  born 
to  them  an  heir,  then  the  coveted  money  would 
fall  into  their  hands  and  all  would  be  well.  So 
Pietro  pi'aycd  earnestly  for  an  heir  to  his  fallen 
house,  but  Violante,  more  practical  though  less 
nice  in  honor,  went  secretly  to  work  to  fulfil 
the  pious  yearning  of  her  husband. 

There  was  a  place  in  Eome  down  past  San 
Lorenzo,  beyond  labyrinths  of  ancient  dwell- 
ings, where,  at  the  end  of  a  certain  black  and 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  17 

dingy  court,  stood  a  house  which  Violante  one 
day  sought  and  entered.  She  had  left  the  Via 
Vittoria  book  in  hand  as  if  to  hear  mass,  as  was 
her  daily  wont,  in  San  Lorenzo  church ;  but  book 
and  pious  face  were  assumed  to  deceive  Pietro, 
who  must  not  know  of  her  secret  errand  into 
the  dark  places  of  the  city.  There  was  a  light 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  she  mounted  by  the 
filthy  steps,  holding  tight  to  the  cord  which  did 
service  for  baluster,  until  she  had  reached  the 
last  landing.  She  groped  towards  the  half-open 
door  where  the  dim  light  fell  through,  and  en- 
tered on  her  hidden  quest.  A  half-clad  woman 
started  up  at  her  footsteps. 

"  "What,  you  back  already !"  she  cried.  "  Have 
mercy  on  me,  poor  sinner  that  I  am !"  But  see- 
ing only  a  woman,  her  voice  changed  from  terror 
to  entreaty,  and  "  What  may  your  pleasure  be  ?" 
she  civilly  asked  of  the  undaunted  Violante. 

Now,  Violante  had  long  kept  in  mind  the  ob- 
ject of  her  present  visit,  and  she  had  noticed 
this  woman  over  her  open-air  washing  at  the 
cistern  by  Citorio,  noticed  and  envied  her 
shapely  figure,  and  had  tracked  her  home  to 
her  forlorn  house-top,  whither  she  had  now 
come  to  tempt  her  by  proposing  an  unlawful 
bargain.  The  talk  was  short  between  them,  for 
the  wretched  washerwoman  was  only  too  will- 
ing to  earn  an  addition  to  her  scanty  wages, 
,1 b  2* 


18  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  Yiolante  was  disinclined  to  linger  long  in 
such  compromising  intercourse.  They  parted 
at  the  stairway,  and  as  Yiolante  descended  into 
the  darkness  below  the  woman  repeated,  in  a 
loud  whisper  above  her  on  the  landing,  the 
terms  of  the  agreement, — 

"  Six  months  hence,  then,  a  person  whom  you 
trust  is  to  come  and  fetch  the  babe  away,  no 
matter  what  its  sex.  The  price  is  to  be  kept 
secret,  and  the  child  to  be  yours." 

Violante  was  triumphant.  Here  was  the 
whole  trouble  solved  by  a  single  deft  stroke  of 
diplomacy.  To  be  sure,  it  was  an  unworthy  sub- 
terfuge and  weighed  a  trifle  on  her  conscience, 
but  the  heirs  to  Pietro's  wealth  must  look  out 
for  themselves,  and  as  for  the  stain  of  such  a 
compact  as  she  had  just  made,  that  must  be 
atoned  for  by  redoubled  fervor  in  devotion; 
and,  so  thinking,  she  hurried  off  to  church,  gain- 
ing her  place  just  in  time  for  the  Magnificat, 
which  she  uttered  with  unusual  energy. 

When  she  arrived  at  home  Violante  revealed 
to  Pietro  a  startling  and  joyous  piece  of  news. 
Her  constant  orisons,  she  said,  and  charitable 
work  had  brought  her  a  fulfilment  of  her  great 
longing.  She  must  keep  in-doors  for  the  next 
half-year,  and  then,  maybe, — and  she  coupled 
the  news  with  an  elderly  caress, — maybe  they 
might  at  last  be  blessed  with  an  heir  to  restore 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  19 

their  fortunes  and  brighten  their  fast-approach- 
ing age. 

So  one  day  Pietro  found  himself  the  father 
of  a  little  black-eyed  girl,  and  with  the  conscious 
pride  of  mature  paternity,  as  well  as  the  inward 
satisfaction  that  now  his  financial  troubles  were 
likely  to  be  mended,  at  least  for  a  time,  he  and 
his  wife  bore  the  infant  to  San  Lorenzo  church 
where  the  Curate  Ottoboni  christened  it,  with 
the  prodigality  of  names  then  in  vogue,  Fran- 
cesca  Vittoria  Pompilia  Comparini. 

Violante  played  her  part  well,  and  no  shadow 
of  suspicion  crossed  the  mind  of  her  husband 
or  of  the  gossips  of  the  Yia  Vittoria.  Whether 
or  not  the  dangerous  secret  preyed  upon  her 
mind,  she  bore  herself  as  a  mother  should,  and 
did  with  unfaltering  assurance  what  was  need- 
ful in  the  ceremony  of  baptism.  Hers  was  a 
calculating  mind,  and  she  had  carefully  planned 
and  now  as  carefully  executed  a  hazardous 
scheme,  which,  she  reflected,  had  for  its  end  a 
justifying  benefit  both  for  her  husband  and  her- 
self Moreover,  was  it  not  a  worthy  act  to  rescue 
from  squalid  surroundings  and  degrading  influ- 
ences a  child  that  might  prove  a  delight  to 
their  barren  age  and  grow  to  useful  and  per- 
haps beautiful  womanhood  ?  Such  thoughts  ran 
through  her  mind  as  she  stood  beside  her  hus- 
band at  the  font,  and  with  them  her  common- 


20  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

place  nature  postponed  for  a  time  the  inevitable 
reassertion  of  conscience. 

But  Pietro  in  all  the  luxury  of  his  new  father- 
hood was  a  vain  and  delighted  man.  He  bore 
the  little  Pompilia  home  with  a  thousand  ca- 
resses, and  from  that  day  forth  he  was  her  play- 
mate and  her  slave.  He  romped  with  her  on 
the  floor,  taught  her,  as  she  grew,  many  a  child- 
ish game,  and  year  by  year  measured  her  in- 
creasing height  against  the  walls  of  the  shaded 
villa  beyond  the  gates. 

Poverty,  however,  had  always  of  late  lurked 
at  Pietro's  heels,  and  one  day,  with  scarce  a 
warning,  he  found  himself  in  absolute  need. 
He  had  squandered  his  inherited  income,  had 
idled  away  his  opportunities  to  repair  it,  and 
now  in  his  old  age  he  was  destitute  and  help- 
less. But  Yiolante  was  a  wife  of  many  re- 
sources, and  her  busy  mind  went  to  work  with 
all  its  old  vigor  to  solve  the  new  difficulty.  They 
still  had  one  possession  which  might  retrieve 
their  fortunes.  Pompilia  was  now  a  grown  girl, 
with  great  dark  eyes  and  a  bounty  of  black 
hair.  She  had,,  moreover,  the  sweet  touch  of  that 
first  youth  which  is  a  potent  charm  to  most 
men,  but  which  appeals  with  a  peculiar  zest  to 
the  jaded  taste  of  a  man  of  the  world.  She 
was  over-young,  to  be  sure,  for  marriage,  but  in 
the  Italy  of  that  day  a  young  girl  stepped  out 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  21 

of  childhood  directly  into  wedlock,  and  imma- 
turity of  mind  and  of  character  was  overlooked 
by  wooers  who  sought  only  beauty  or  wealth. 

It  was  the  crafty  Violante's  plan,  then,  to 
carry  her  attractive  goods  to  the  most  favorable 
market.  She  had  grown  attached  to  the  child, 
because  of  its  loving  traits  and  infantile  charm, 
and  because  it  had  so  well  served  her  pui-pose, 
but  the  family  need  weighed  heavily  on  her 
now,  and,  like  many  another  ambitious  dame 
with  only  half  her  motives,  she  set  deliberately 
to  work  to  secure  at  one  stroke  for  Pompilia  a 
wealthy  husband  and  for  herself  and  Pietro  a 
snug  fireside  protective  against  want,  with  even 
a  little  luxury  thrown  in  if  that  were  possible. 

Now,  the  desperate  state  of  Pietro's  affairs 
was  unknown  as  yet  to  his  neighbors,  and  he 
had  managed  thus  far  with  the  remnants  of  his 
credit  to  eke  out  a  respectable  appearance.  No 
whisper  of  the  inward  anxiety  was  allowed  to 
mar  the  customary  outward  thrift,  and  the  old 
rej)utation  for  fortune  and  prosperity  was  un- 
touched by  rumor.  This  being  the  case,  Pom- 
pilia, with  fresh  young  beauty  and  the  repute 
of  considerable  wealth,  was  an  eligible  match 
likely  to  be  snapped  at  by  a  suitor  whose  own 
fortunes  while  not  exhausted  still  needed  re- 
plenishing, or  by  some  elderly  seeker  after  a 
youthful  spouse. 


22  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Pompilia  herself  was  just  thirteen  years  old, 
and  knew  nothing  of  the  trials  which  beset  her 
parents.  She  had  lived  a  careless  and  happy 
life  in  the  garden  of  the  villa,  and  scarcely  ever, 
save  when  she  went  to  San  Lorenzo  church,  saw 
the  great  world  outside  its  walls.  She  had  a 
sole  friend  in  the  early  times,  Tisbe,  a  neighbor's 
child,  whom  Violante  brought  in  to  play  with 
her  on  rainy  afternoons;  and  the  two  would 
trace  each  other's  fortunes  in  the  woven  stories 
of  the  household  tapestry. 

"Tisbe,  that's  you,  there,  with  a  half-moon 
on  your  hair-knot  and  a  spear  in  your  hand, — a 
huntress.  See.  you  are  following  the  stag,  and 
a  great  blue  scarf  blows  out  at  your  back." 

"And  there  you  are,  Pompilia,  with  green 
leaves  growing  from  your  finger-ends  and  all 
the  rest  of  you  turned  into  a  sort  of  tree." 

Then  they  would  laugh  together  and  play  out 
the  tales  pictured  for  them  through  the  folds  of 
the  dim  old  hangings ;  or  they  would  often  run 
off  to  the  vineyard  and  sit  in  the  shade  of  the 
vine-leaves  for  whole  mornings  together. 

Such  childish  happiness  had  wrought  in  little 
Pompilia  a  thoughtful  and  sympathetic  nature, 
but  she  had  grown  up  without  mental  training 
and  unconscious  of  the  simplest  experiences  of 
life.  She  could  neither  read  nor  write ;  she  had 
scarcely  known   one  of  the  opposite  sex  save 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  23 

the  fatherly  old  Pietro,  and  she  was  entirely 
ignorant  that  such  a  thing  as  giving  in  mar- 
riage existed. 

But  one  day  as  Pietro  was  taking  an  after- 
dinner  doze  and  Pompilia,  in  some  far-away 
chamber,  was  busy  at  her  broider-frame,  there 
came  a  priest  to  the  "Via  Yittoria:  a  smooth- 
mannered  and  sleek-faced  personage  in  the 
habit  of  an  Abate,  who  asked  for  Yiolante  with 
a  conscious  air  of  knowing  that  she  was  within 
and  alone. 

"  Might  he  speak  ?" 

"  Yes,"  came  promptly  from  in-doors,  with  a 
flutter  of  skirts,  and  he  entered  and  seated  him- 
self with  the  suave  grace  of  one  used  to  more 
elevated  interviews.  He  begged  leave  to  present 
himself  as  the  Abate  Paolo,  the  younger  brother 
of  a  Tuscan  house,  whose  actual  representative 
was  the  Count  Guido  Franceschini ;  and  then, 
glossing  his  great  flap  hat  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand  or  reaching  down  to  smooth  the  wrinkles 
from  his  shapely  stocking,  but  always  keeping 
a  keen  gray  eye  fixed  on  the  flattered  dame,  he 
descanted  on  the  house  of  the  Franceschini, 
how  old  they  were,  what  ancestors  they  boasted 
of,  and  a  score  of  other  notable  things  fit  to 
turn  the  head  of  a  much  wiser  mother  than 
the  susceptible  Yiolante. 

"  But  we  are  not  rich,"  he  said,  with  an  ap- 


24  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

parent  burst  of  candor, — "  that  is,  not  so  poor 
either.  One  can't  have  everything,  you  know. 
We  are  well  enough  off  to  support  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  house,  and  then  we  are  in  the  way 
to  fortune," — and  he  leaned  forward  with  a  con- 
fidential lowering  of  the  voice,  as  if  to  speak 
into  Violante's  ravished  ear, — "  and  to  fortune 
better  than  the  best.  Well,  my  good  madam, 
you  see,  if  we  could  but  keep  Count  Guido 
patient  for  a  little  while,  constant  to  his  own 
interests  and  friendly  with  the  Cardinal  whom 
he  serves,  we  should  one  day  wear — it  is  prom- 
ised us — the  red  cloth  that  keeps  a  whole  house- 
hold warm.  But  he  is  restless,  dissatisfied,  and, 
moreover,  he's  slipping  on  into  years,  and  years 
make  men  want  certainties, — not  promises  alone, 
not  promises."  And  the  Abate  emphasizing  the 
word,  Violante  also  said,  seriously, — 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right,  your  Eeverence ; 
promises  make  poor  living." 

"What  I  was  about  to  say,"  continued  the 
Abate.  "  Promises  make  poor  living  indeed ;  and, 
in  truth,  my  brother  Guido  is  home-sick, — longs 
for  the  old  sights  and  usual  faces  again ;  he  has, 
poor  fellow,  no  ecclesiastical  tastes ;  he's  a  cold 
nature,  humble  but  self-sustaining.  Ah,  poor 
brother  Guido !  he  cares  little  enough  for  the 
pomp  of  Rome.  Dear  me !  he'd  rather  live  in 
his  dingy  palace,  as  vast  almost  as  a  quarry  and 


The  Ring  and  the  Booh  25 

nearly  as  bare,  or  up  at  his  villa  on  the  hill-side 
by  Vittiano." 

Violante  interjected  here  a  pleased  "  Indeed !" 
to  signify  her  sense  of  the  honor  done  her  by 
such  explicit  revelations  of  family  affairs,  and 
then  the  Abate  went  on : 

"  Yes,  he  talks  of  nothing  else ;  it's  the  palace 
and  the  villa,  the  villa  and  the  palace,  all  day 
long, — enough  to  make  one's  ears  ache.  And 
lately  nothing  will  do  but  he  must  fly  away 
from  Eome  post-haste  to  cheer  his  mother's  old 
age  by  domesticating  with  her  in  the  palace ; 
and  a  new  idea  has  struck  him  too.  He  must 
not  go  back  alone ;  he  must  carry  a  wife  with 
him  to  enliven  his  mother's  declining  years  and 
inspire  her  with  hope  and  gayety, — so  he  says." 

Violante  was  hardly  able  to  suppress  her  de- 
sire to  offer  Pompilia  then  and  there,  and  to 
sing  her  praises  as  a  wife,  but  she  had  a  glim- 
mering sense  that  a  slight  resistance  would  be 
seemly,  and  she  merely  betrayed  the  wish  by  a 
sharp  little  movement  forward  in  her  chair  and 
a  Hfting  of  her  hands  from  her  lap. 

"  La,  now,"  she  said,  "  and  a  very  good  thing 
for  him  to  do." 

"  True,  true,"  continued  the  Abate,  "  a  very 

rational  thing  to  do,"  and  he  smiled  gayly  at 

the  pleased  old  dame.  "  Ought  now  a  man  to 

interpose  if  his  brother  contemplates  so  wise 

B  3 


26  TaUs  from  Ten  Poets. 

a  step  ?  There's  no  making  Guido  great ;  that's 
out  of  the  question.  Why,  then,  not  let  him 
for  once  be  happy  ?  But  he  must  be  protected 
from  designing  matrons  who  covet  the  distinc- 
tion of  such  an  alliance  without  being  able  to 
give  sufficient  in  return.  Yes,  Guido  needs  the 
watchful  interest  of  his  brothers," — the  Abate 
here  cast  down  his  eyes  in  humble  deprecation 
of  his  own  merits :  "  he  must  not  be  allowed  to 
make  a  mesalliance.  That  at  least  we  must 
forestall." 

"Little  danger,"  said  the  discreet  Violante, 
"with  so  experienced  a  hand  to  guide  him." 
The  Abate  made  a  profound  bow  and  pro- 
ceeded : 

"No,  signora,  we  are  not  anxious  for  name 
and  fame ;  we  have  sufficient  of  them  already. 
But  if  some  pure  and  charming  woman,  un- 
tainted by  the  world,  and  all  tenderness  and 
truth,  could  be  found, — some  girl,  not  too  wealthy, 
.to  match  with  Guido's  own  moderate  fortune, — 
but,  of  course,  with  a  sufficient  dowry, — if  such 
a  girl  could  be  discovered,  she  would  indeed  be 
the  ideal  wife  for  Count  Guido." 

Violante  said  nothing,  but  she  showed  by  con- 
scious interest  that  she  had  taken  the  bait  so 
craftily  suggested  by  the  Abate,  and  was  ready 
when  he  had  twitched  the  line  to  be  hand- 
somely landed. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  27 

"  And  now,"  he  began,  with  an  assumption  of 
ignorance  and  an  insinuating  voice,  "  is  it  not 
true  that  you,  Signora  Yiolante,  keep  hidden 
here  in  this  very  house  a  lily  of  a  daughter 
such  as  we  seek  for  Count  Guido  ?  Ah,  I  have 
guessed  your  secret !"  he  laughed,  with  mock- 
threatening  finger  raised.  "You  conceal  here 
under  your  sheltering  mother-wing  a  wife 
worthy  of  Guido's  house  and  heart." 

"  By  no  means,  your  Reverence,"  said  Vio- 
lante,  with  becoming  humility ;  "  merely  my 
little  daughter  Pompilia,  unworthy,  believe  me, 
such  an  honor." 

"Ah,"  said  the  gallant  Abate,  "you  cannot 
long  hide  such  a  beauty  from  the  light.  But  I 
merely  came  to  see.  I  have  spoken  frankly 
and  openly.  I  could  do  no  less."  Here  he 
patted  his  well-shaped  calf  again,  and  then, 
straightening  up  with  a  shrug,  said,  "If  any 
harm's  done — well,  the  matter's  at  least  off  my 
mind,  and  I  humbly  ask  your  pardon,  signora, 
for  the  intrusion." 

He  rose  now  with  a  clerical  dignity  abandoned 
during  their  conversation  and  grandly  kissed 
the  devout  Violante's  hand.  Then  he  bowed 
low  and  left  her. 

When  he  was  quite  gone,  Yiolante  rubbed  her 
eyes  awhile  in  sheer  bedazzlement,  and  then  ran 
off  to  waken  Pietro  and  tell  him  the  wonderful 


28  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

news.  Her  more  practical  husband  rubbed  his 
eyes  in  turn,  looked  very  knowing,  and  indeed 
not  a  little  puzzled  too,  took  up  his  cane  and 
hat,  and  then  sallied  forth  to  the  Square  of 
Spain,  towards  the  Boat-fountain,  where  his 
gossips  were  wont  to  lounge  and  exchange  the 
news.  He  made  some  display  of  his  latest 
honor,  and  expected  to  be  congratulated  on 
such  good  fortune,  but  he  only  got  well  laughed 
at  for  his  pains.  They  told  him  with  blunt 
jocosity  just  who  his  visitor  was :  the  brother 
of  Count  Guido  Franceschini,  whose  paternal 
acres  were  a  stubble-field  and  brick-heap.  There 
used  to  be  a  palace,  but  it  was  long  ago 
burned  down.  To  be  sure,  he  was  a  count, 
but  he  hadn't  a  coin  in  his  pouch, — nothing 
left  to  support  a  noble  name  but  sloth,  pride, 
and  rapacity.  Wanted  to  go  home,  did  he? 
Well,  let  Pietro  help  him ;  he'd  not  get  home 
without  assistance. 

"  As  for  this  Abate  Paolo,"  said  an  old  gray- 
beard  who  sat  on  the  fountain-step,  "  he's  a 
shrewder  mouse.  He's  done  well  here  in  Kome, — 
fattened  on  the  church  and  made  a  comfortable 
nest.  But  Guido's  had  to  shift  for  himself,  and 
now  his  Cardinal's  cast  him  off,  and  his  last 
shift's  this  of  yours.  He's  snuffed  your  snug 
little  annuity,  and  in  return  would  make  your 
girl  a  lady,  forsooth !     There,"  and  he  looked 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  29 

with  a  derisive  smile  up  at  Pietro,  "  don't  brag 
to  us.  Do  you  suppose  Count  Guido  'd  stoop  to 
you  and  yours  if  lie  had  one  coin  to  chink 
against  another  ?     Bah !" 

So  Pietro  went  home  again  disenchanted  and 
rueful,  yet  glad  that  the  matter  had  ended  where 
it  did  and  no  harm  done. 

The  marriage  being  thus  impossible,  all  else 
followed  in  due  course :  Paolo  serenely  heard 
his  fate;  Count  Guido  bore  the  blow  with  resig- 
nation ;  and  poor  disappointed  Violante  wiped 
away  a  tear  or  two,  renouncing  her  golden 
dreams  with  bitter  reluctance.  But  she  praised 
through  her  tears  Pietro' s  prompt  sagacity  and 
aifected  to  acquiesce  in  his  wiser  decree. 

Thus  all  went  well  for  a  day  or  so  ;  then  Vio- 
lante, as  she  one  night  fondled  Pompilia  in  her 
arms,  whispered  to  her, — 

"  And  what  if  a  gay  cavalier  should  come  to- 
morrow to  see  my  little  Pompilia  ?"  And  she 
held  the  girl  off  and  looked  smilingly  into  her 
great  dark  eyes.  "  And  if  he  does  come,  Pom- 
pilia must  let  him  take  her  hand  and  kiss  it ; 
and  then  some  fine  night  we  shall  all  go  off  to 
San  Lorenzo  church,  and  you  and  he  will  be 
married  at  the  altar;  and  after  that  we  will 
come  home  again  and  leave  the  cavalier,  and — 
that's  all.  But,  you  naughty  girl,  you  must  say 
nothing  about  it, — not  even  to  papa  Pietro, — 

3* 


80  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

now,  do  you  hear?  Girl-brides  must  not  tell 
secrets.  And  won't  it  be  a  gay  lark  to  steal  away 
and  never  let  him  know  ?" 

So  on  the  morrow  Count  Guido  came  and 
paid  his  devoirs  to  his  intended  bride.  He  was 
in  pitiable  contrast  with  the  young  and  beauti- 
ful girl  he  was  to  marry.  Hook-nosed  and  yel- 
low, with  a  great  bush  of  a  beard,  he  looked  like 
an  ancient  owl  clad  in  the  garb  of  a  Eoman 
nobleman.  But  Pompilia  was  ignorant  of  the 
commonest  usages  of  life,  and  wedlock  for  her, 
even  with  such  a  groom,  had  none  of  the  ter- 
rors which  it  would  have  had  for  a  more  mature 
and  exjierienced  woman. 

The  next  night,  through  a  driving  December 
storm,  the  girl  and  her  mother,  well  cloaked 
and  veiled,  set  out  for  San  Lorenzo,  and  there 
met  the  Abate  Paolo  at  the  altar-side.  Two 
tapers  shivered  in  the  damp  chill  of  the  church, 
and  Pompilia,  standing  in  mute  expectancy, 
heard  the  outer  doors  locked  behind  her,  as  if 
barring  out  help  and  hope. 

"  Quick,  lose  no  time !"  cried  the  priest,  and 
straightway  down  from  behind  the  altar,  where 
he  was  in  hiding,  stepped  Count  Guido,  who 
caught  Pompilia's  hand.  The  Abate  then  went 
hurriedly  through  the  service,  and  at  last  pro- 
nounced them  man  and  wife.  Then  the  two 
brothers  drew  aside  and  talked  together,  while 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  31 

Pompilia,  trembling  and  dismayed,  crept  down 
and  joined  her  mother,  who  was  weeping.  They 
were  noticed  no  further,  and  stole  on  tiptoe  to 
the  door,  which  was  now  unlocked.  It  had 
stopped  raining,  and  they  hastened  through  the 
dark  wet  streets  for  home.  At  the  house-door 
Yiolante  turned,  and,  placing  a  finger  across 
Pompilia's  lips,  whispered, — 

"Not  a  word  to  papa  Pietro.  Girl-brides 
never  breathe  a  word.     You  hear  ?" 

Cheerily  Pietro  welcomed  them  home  with 
not  a  little  banter. 

"  What  do  these  priests  mean,"  he  said,  "  by 
praying  folks  to  death  in  such  weather  as  this  ? 
Christmas  at  hand,  too,  to  wash  off  our  sins 
without  need  of  rain." 

Yiolante  gave  Pompilia's  hand  a  timely 
squeeze,  and  the  young  bride  kissed  the  old 
man  and  said  not  a  word. 

II. 

Three  weeks  of  Pompilia's  life  had  unevent- 
fully passed,  when  one  morning  as  she  sat  sing- 
ing alone  in  her  chamber  at  her  embroidery- 
frame  two  or  three  loud  voices,  with  now  and 
then  a  sob  and  the  names  "  Guido,"  "  Paolo," 
angrily  spoken,  broke  the  silence  and  startled 
her  to  her  feet.  She  ran  into  the  room  where 
the  voices  came  from,  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 


32  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ter,  and  there  stood  the  Count  and  his  brotheT 
the  Abate  with  his  sly  face  nowise  dismayed, 
while  Pietro  seemed  all  red  and  angry,  scarce 
able  to  stutter  out  his  wrath.  Violante  stood 
by  sobbing  as  he  reproached  her, — 

"You  have  murdered  us, — me  and  yourself 
and  the  poor  child!" 

"  Murdered  or  not,  Signor  Pietro  Comparini," 
Guido  interposed,  "  your  child  is  now  my  wife. 
I  claim  her,  and  have  come  to  take  her." 

But  Paolo,  with  more  dexterity,  put  suavely 
in :  "  Consider,  Signor  Pietro — or — kinsman,  if 
I  may  call  you  so,  what  is  the  good  of  all  your 
sagacity  except  to  give  you  wisdom  in  such  a 
strait  as  this  ?  The  two  are  irrevocably  man 
and  wife  ;  that  I  guarantee,  whether  it  please 
you  or  not.  Now,  we  look  to  you  for  counsel, 
not  violence,  since  the  thing  cannot  be  undone. 
Tell  us  what  to  do  and  we  will  gladly  follow 
your  advice,"  and  Paolo  smiled  craftily,  sensible 
that  the  game  was  wholly  in  his  own  hands ; 
the  while  Violante,  sobbing  all  the  faster,  mur- 
mured, "  Yes,  all,  all  murdered.  Oh,  my  sin, 
my  secret !"  and  other  such  contrite  fragments, 
consolatory  to  no  one  in  particular. 

Then  Pompilia  began  to  surmise  the  truth. 
Something  false  and  underhand  had  happened, 
for  which  Violante  was  to  blame  and  she  to  be 
pitied,  for  they  all  spoke  of  her,  though  none 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  33 

addressed  her.  She  stood  there  mute  until 
Pietro  embraced  her  and  said, — 

"Withdraw,  my  child!"  then  turning  to  the 
rest,  "  She  is  not  likely  at  this  stage  to  be  help- 
ful to  the  sacrifice.  Do  you  want  the  victim  by 
while  you  estimate  its  value  ?  For  her  sake  I 
consent,  then,  to  hear  you  talk ;  but  she  must 
retire.  Go,  child,  and  pray  God  to  help  the 
innocent !" 

Pompilia  went  away  then  and  knelt  to  pray ; 
but  soon  Violante  came  in  to  her  with  swol- 
len eyes  and  hushful  movements  of  the  mouth, 
to  make  believe  matters  were  coming  right 
again. 

"  You  are  too  young,"  she  sobbed,  "  and  can- 
not understand  yet.  Your  father  did  not  under- 
stand at  first.  I  wanted  to  benefit  us  all  three, 
and  when  he  failed  to  see  my  meaning,  why,  I 
tried  to  do  it  without  his  aid;  but  now  he 
confesses  he  was  wrong,  and  the  trouble's  half 
over.  To  be  sure  it  was  right  to  give  you  a 
husband  with  a  noble  name  and  a  palace  and 
no  end  of  other  pleasant  things!  What  do 
you  care  about  youth  and  good  looks  ? — this  is 
the  kind  of  a  man  to  keep  the  house  and  love 
his  wife.  We  lose  a  daughter,  to  be  sure,  but 
we  gain  a  son,  that's  all,  and  now  Pieti^o  begins 
to  be  reasonable." 

Pompilia  strove  to  pacify  her  agitated  mother 
I.— c 


34  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  made  cheerful  assent  to  all  she  asked,  then 
Violante  went  on  : 

"  It's  to  be  ari'anged,  my  dear  child,  so  that 
we  shall  never  separate.  Papa  Pietro  and  I 
are  to  go  to  Arezzo  to  live  with  you  and  the 
Count,  in  a  fine  palace  where  you  will  be  the 
queen ;  and  you'll  forgive  your  unhappy  old 
mother,  now,  won't  you, — there's  a  sweet  ?" 

"  Forgive  her !  what  for  ?"  exclaimed  Pompilia. 
"  Everything  is  right,  mother,  if  only  you  will 
stop  crying.  There,  there,  you  have  done  no 
harm,  and  it  was  all  for  the  best  after  all!" 

Then  Violante  kissed  her  fervently  and  took 
her  back  to  where  her  father  leaned  opposite 
Count  Guido,  who  stood  eying  him  as  a  butcher 
might  eye  a  cast  ox  that  accepts  its  fate  and 
ceases  to  struggle.  Paolo  looked  archly  on, 
touching  his  brow  with  the  pen-point  now  and 
then  to  subdue  a  look  of  triumph,  and  when 
Pompilia  came  up  to  them  he  said  impressively^ 
with  a  dignified  gesture  towards  her  and  the 
Count, — 

"  Count  Guido,  take  your  lawful  wife  until 
death  do  part  you." 

"While  Violante  was  absent  with  Pompilia 
the  terms  of  the  marriage  contract  had  been 
agreed  upon.  Pietro  was  induced,  partly  by 
coercion,  partly  by  persuasion,  but  more  than 
all  else  by  the  inward  consciousness  of  his  own 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  35 

ruined  condition,  to  assign  to  his  son-in-law, 
Count  Guido,  all  his  possessions  of  every  kind 
whatever,  in  return  for  which  the  Count 
promised  to  support  Pietro  and  his  wife  during 
the  rest  of  their  lives  in  his  palace  at  Arezzo. 
The  Eoman  household  was  to  strike  fresh  roots 
into  Tuscan  soil.  Pompilia  was  to  pay  her  por- 
tion of  the  charge  with  her  dowry,  and  the  rest 
was  to  come  out  of  the  empty  purse  of  Pietro. 

There  was  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction  in  Pietro's 
throat  upon  making  terms  so  helpful  to  his 
broken  fortunes  at  so  opportune  a  moment,  and 
the  inward  gratification  he  derived  from  this 
went  far  to  heal  the  woimd  made  by  the  dis- 
obedience of  his  wife  and  the  risk  it  involved 
to  his  daughter's  happiness.  On  their  part, 
Paolo  and  Guido  were  equally  gleeful  over  so 
favorable  a  settlement.  Paolo's  eyes  twinkled 
with  insuppressible  exultation  at  having  so  far 
achieved  his  dearest  hope  of  inveigling  old  Com- 
parini  into  an  agreement  which  should  restore 
the  noble  house  of  Franceschini.  They  had,  in 
short,  each  outwitted  the  other,  and  laid  up  an 
endless  store  of  rancor  for  the  bitter  future  that 
was  approaching. 

Thus,  with  only  the  twilight  of  their  lives  still 
to  spend,  Pietro  and  his  spouse  went  to  Arezzo, 
eager  to  enjoy  the  lord-  and  ladyship  gained  by 
their   doubtful  bargain.     Guido,   on   his   part, 


36  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

longed  for  the  tranquillity  purchased  by  his  new 
venture,  and  looked  with  relief  towards  a  future 
free  from  display  and  ambitions.  But  the  Com- 
parini  were  anxious  to  begin  where  he  had  left 
off.  This  was  not  a  promising  state  in  which  to 
enter  upon  such  an  arrangement  as  theirs ;  and 
a  woful  want  of  harmony  was  apparent  even 
during  the  first  week  of  their  common  residence 
at  the  so-called  palace. 

"This,"  cried  Pietro  and  Violante  in  a  breath, 
— "  this  the  Count,  the  palace,  the  privilege  and 
luxury  that  were  promised  us !  For  this  have 
we  exchanged  our  liberty,  our  competence,  and 
our  darling  child !  Why,  this  is  a  sepulchre,  a 
mere  stone-heap,  a  disgrace  to  the  very  street 
it  stands  in,  and  that  the  vilest  street  in  the 
whole  town  as  it  is." 

They  harped  in  turn  upon  their  wrongs.  Now 
it  was  Yiolante  who  mourned  the  loss  of  her 
accustomed  diet  and  inveighed  against  the  mea- 
greness  of  Guido's  fare  ;  then  Pietro,  with  a  plaint 
for  the  Via  Vittoria  and  the  pleasant  villa  in 
the  Pauline. 

"  "Where  is  the  neighborliness  and  feasts  and 
holidays,"  ruefully  asked  Yiolante, — "  ay,  even 
the  cheerful  sun  that  used  to  shine  for  us 
in  Eome  ?  Where  are  they  ?  We  are  robbed 
and  starved  and  frozen.  We  will  have  justice. 
We  will  go  to  the  courts."     And  because  Count 


The  Bbig  and  the  Book.  37 

Guide's  mother,  old  Lady  Beatrice,  made  an 
effort  to  placate  the  enraged  dame,  but  was  slow 
to  abdicate  her  post  of  mistress,  she  was  called 
a  score  of  hard  names,  devil  and  dragon  and 
what  not,  too  severe  for  frail  humanity  to  bear ; 
but  the  elderly  noblewoman  stood  upon  her 
ancestral  dignity  and  only  infuriated  her  op- 
ponent the  more  with  her  provoking  contempt. 

All  this  Count  Guido  suffered  with  assumed 
forbearance,  for  he  did  not  relish  a  rupture  with 
the  Comparini  before  he  should  be  blessed  with 
an  heir  as  an  additional  pledge  of  his  title  to 
Pietro's  fortune.  But  after  four  months'  expe- 
rience of  such  a  life,  with  Pietro  trumpeting  his 
wrongs  at  church  and  in  the  market-place,  and 
Violante  pouring  hers  into  any  pair  of  ears 
that  would  listen, — after  the  exhaustion  of  all 
his  calculating  and  wary  patience  the  Count 
was  glad  at  last  to  get  rid  of  them,  even  at  the 
risk  of  endangering  his  nicely-plotted  scheme. 

So,  their  worst  done,  saving  the  final  breach, 
the  Comparini  one  day  renounced  their  share 
of  the  bargain ;  flung  in  Guido' s  face  the  debt 
due  them  for  maintenance  never  rendered  ;  left 
their  heart's  darling,  as  they  said,  at  the  mercy 
of  her  husband's  cruelty ;  bade  Arezzo  to  rot, 
and  cursed  it  one  and  all;  then  travelled  on 
vociferating  and  enraged  to  Rome. 

Now,  it  was  Jubilee  week  in  Rome  when  Pietro 

4 


^  oon^i*l 


38  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  Violante  arrived  there.  The  good  old  Pope 
Innocent  the  Twelfth  had  ordained  a  celebration 
of  his  eightieth  birthday,  and  the  city  was  given 
over  to  festivities.  He  had  also  benignly  de- 
creed a  pardon  for  minor  offences  of  conscience, 
and  a  leniency  towards  baser  crimes,  provided 
the  offender  confessed  and  was  shriven  of  his 
guilt  during  the  week  of  Jubilee.  This  set  the 
injured  Violante  to  brooding  over  her  long-hid- 
den sin  against  Pietro.  She  had  never  quite 
been  able  to  clear  her  conscience  of  the  stain 
of  having  entered  into  the  unrighteous  bargain 
for  the  purchase  of  Pompilia.  JSTo  evil  had,  she 
tried  to  believe,  ever  arisen  from  it.  Pietro 
was  still  alive,  and  the  distant  relatives  who 
would  have  inherited  his  money  were  in  no 
wise  defrauded  of  their  due.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  child  had  been  reclaimed,  and  much  good 
had  thus  actually  been  accomplished.  Never- 
theless the  sense  of  guilt  clung  to  her  through 
the  years,  though  she  had  tried  to  throw  it  off 
by  making  Pompilia  happy,  by  marrying  her 
into  a  noble  family,  and  by  sacrificing  all  she 
possessed  for  the  girl's  sake.  Now,  however, 
that  she  found  herself  in  Eome  with  such  bitter 
experiences  rankling  in  her  mind  and  a  deep 
hatred  of  Guido  inciting  her  to  any  extreme 
for  the  sake  of  revenge,  now  that  she  might  so 
easily  gain  the  good  Pope's  absolution,  and  at 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  89 

the  same  time  deal  a  deadly  blow  at  Count 
Guide,  by  imperilling  his  wife's  dowry,  she  be- 
gan to  think  more  constantly  of  her  sin  and 
more  seriously  and  deeply  to  repent  of  it. 

So  she  muffled  and  veiled  herself  and  went 
one  day  to  church,  where  she  entered  with  the 
straggling  throngs  and  made  her  way  to  the 
confessional.  There  she  knelt  down,  with  beat- 
ing heart,  and  in  a  hushed  and  broken  voice  re- 
vealed to  the  listening  ear  all  the  odious  details 
of  her  plot :  how  she  had  bought  Pompilia, 
palmed  her  off  on  the  unsuspecting  Pietro,  and 
then  married  her  to  Count  Gruido.  The  reply 
came  like  a  note  from  the  trump  of  fate.  Be- 
fore she  could  be  absolved  of  guilt  she  must 
make  restitution. 

"  Do  your  part,"  said  the  measured  voice. 
"  Tell  your  husband's  defrauded  heirs.  Tell 
your  husband  himself,  who  has  been  entrapped 
into  paternal  love  for  a  child  not  his  own.  Tell 
Count  Guido,  your  son-in-law, — tell  him,  and 
bear  his  just  anger.  Then,  when  you  have  duly 
done  penance,  come  hither,  and  you  may  be  par- 
doned ;  not  before." 

When  Violante  arose  from  her  knees  her  mind 
was  firmly  made  up.  She  went  directly  home 
and  made  a  contrite  avowal  of  her  wrong-doing 
to  Pietro,  who  listened  in  astonishment,  yet 
with  no  visible  emotion,  to  her  startling  revela- 


40  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

tion.  He  was  stunned  by  the  news,  but  there 
was  a  mitia-atinjT  note  which  sounded  through  it 
all  and  made  it  bearable.  He  loved  Pompilia 
truh^  and  to  have  been  told  this  about  her  six 
months  ago  would  have  wounded  him  hke  cold 
steel,  but  now  all  was  different.  If  Pompilia 
were  not  their  child,  then  the  disastrous  bargain 
with  Count  Guido  was  cancelled  and  the  rem- 
nant of  his  means  was  still  his  own.  Perhaps, 
too,  he  thought,  with  the  leap  at  a  hoped-for 
conclusion  common  to  us  all  when  the  clouds  of 
misfortune  seem  about  to  break,  perhaps  when 
the  Count  hears  that  he  has  married  a  base-born 
waif  he  will  cast  her  off,  and  we  shall  then  have 
our  dear  Pompilia  back  again  as  well  as  her 
dowry. 

There  was  only  one  way  in  which  Pietro 
might  bring  this  new  turn  of  affairs  to  Guido's 
notice,  and  that  lay  through  the  civil  courts. 
The  Comparini  were  now  actually  destitute, 
and  had  been  obliged,  since  their  return  to 
Eome,  to  live  upon  the  indulgence  of  old  friends 
who  were  little  enough  inclined  thus  to  pay 
for  past  hospitalities.  Hence  on  the  morrow 
Pietro  began  an  action  to  recover  his  pledge 
from  Count  Guido,  and  Violante  blushingly  ap- 
peared and  made  public  declaration  of  her  fault. 
She  renounced  her  motherhood,  and  prayed  the 
law  of  Home  to  interpose  and  redress  the  injury 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  41 

which  had  resulted  from  her  misdeed  to  her  and 
hers. 

Guide,  on  his  part,  made  answer  that  tlie 
story  was  one  long  falsehood  invented  to  rob 
him  of  his  own  and  gain  a  shameless  revenge 
for  fancied  wrongs.  And  thus,  with  crimina- 
tion and  recrimination,  bitter  reproach  and  fierce 
reply,  they  fought  out  the  cause  before  the  ec- 
clesiastical judges  who  tried,  in  those  times,  all 
the  cases  within  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Church. 

At  last  the  trial  was  finished  and  the  court 
gave  its  verdict.  The  wise  judges  inclined  to 
the  moderate  middle  course.  They  held  the 
child  to  be  a  waif;  but,  lest  Guido  should  suf- 
fer by  such  a  decision,  they  adjudged  him  the 
dowry  even  while  they  acknowledged  it  not  to 
belong  to  her.  It  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
partial  repayment  for  the  injury  done  him,  not 
his  by  right  of  marriage.  As  for  Pietro's  con- 
tract of  renunciation  of  his  own  estate,  that 
was  to  be  annulled,  for  he,  at  least,  was  no 
party  to  the  misdoing. 

Such  a  decree  was  satisfactory  neither  to 
Guido  nor  to  Pietro,  and  each  pleaded  immedi- 
ately for  a  reinvestigation  of  the  case.  This 
proceeding  necessarily  caused  delay,  and  the 
matter  therefore  rested  for  the  time  in  an  un- 
settled condition. 

Hence  the  bitterness  on  all  sides  was  deepened, 

4* 


42  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  Guido,  whose  sinister  disposition  had  been 
intensified  by  disappointment  and  ridicule,  began 
to  vent  upon  his  wife  the  rage  he  could  not  visit 
upon  her  parents.  He  was  left  alone  in  the 
grim  ruin  of  a  palace  with  his  brooding  hatred 
of  Pietro  and  Violante,  and  the  only  subject 
with  which  to  satisfy  his  longing  for  revenge 
was  his  innocent  wife.  Suppose  he  should  cast 
her  otf,  turn  her  out  of  doors  ?  But  the  dowiy 
was  in  the  way.  He  must  not  part  from  her 
or  repudiate  her,  or  his  right  to  the  one  thing 
for  which  he  married  her  would  come  into 
question.  No,  he  must  not  be  foolish.  But  she 
could  be  made  to  suffer.  There  was  nothing  to 
hinder  that.  And  suffer  she  should,  if  his  pent- 
up  malice  could  torture  her  or  bring  her  into 
shame.  Oh,  how  he  hated  her !  Every  accent 
of  her  childlike  voice,  every  movement  of  her 
tender  lips,  made  him  think  of  the  deep  insult, 
the  cruel  wrong  to  his  noble  house  inflicted  by 
her  plebeian  kin. 

He  laid  his  plans  with  cool  deliberation.  If 
Pompilia  could  be  induced  in  some  way  to  fly 
from  his  house  and  follow  her  parents  to  Eome, 
if  she  should  break  forth  in  open  revolt  and 
voluntarily  leave  him,  then  there  would  be  no 
question  of  his  ownership  in  the  dowry.  He 
would  be  rid  of  her  and  confirmed  in  his  posses- 
sion of  her  money  at  one  fortunate  stroke.    His 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  43 

•would  be  the  universal  sympathy,  hers  the  gen- 
eral reproach,  and  thus  he  might  enjoy  the  dear 
boon  of  revenge  upon  the  whole  three  at  once. 
Everything  was  to  gain  by  this  method,  and  he 
went  craftily  to  work  upon  it. 

To  Pompilia,  the  news  that  she  was  not  the 
daughter  of  Pietro  and  Violante  had  come  with 
little  effect.  Her  love  for  them  was  undimin- 
ished, and  she  felt  sure  of  their  love  for  her. 
It  was  simply  one  of  the  phases  of  the  endless 
wrangle  with  her  husband,  and  she  could  not 
understand  it  any  better  than  she  understood 
all  the  rest  of  the  puzzling  and  distressing  quar- 
rel. But  one  day  as  she  sat  alone,  musing,  per- 
haps, upon  the  old  childish  pleasures  of  her 
home,  and  longing  to  be  with  her  parents  again, 
Guido  came  in  to  her  with  a  conciliatory  look 
and  bent  over  her,  reaching  a  paper  for  her  to 
see,  on  which  were  pencilled  some  faint  lines  of 
writing.  "  Look,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  text 
with  a  long  finger,  "  I  have  written  you  a  letter 
here  to  my  brother  the  Abate.  He  will  want 
to  know  how  we  get  on  together,  the  household 
news,  and  this  and  that.  Mere  compliment  and 
courtesy.  You  cannot  write,  you  say  ?  But  it 
would  please  Paolo  to  hear  from  you,  and  you 
can  easily  re-trace  those  pencil  lines  in  ink. 
Sign  it  so,"  and  he  pointed  to  her  name  at  the 
end,  "  and  let  me  send  it  when  you  have  finished. 


44  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

It  will  be  a  kindly  thing,  a  sisterly  act,  in  truth, 
and  Paolo  will  be  pleased." 

He  watched  her  and  guided  her  pen  some- 
times as  she  wrote,  and  when  she  had  reached 
the  end  he  took  the  letter  from  her  and  went 
to  his  own  apartment,  chuckling  to  himself  as 
he  read  what  she  had  been  made  to  say.  She 
was  rejoiced,  so  the  letter  ran,  that  her  vile 
kinsfolk  at  last  were  gone.  She  revealed,  piece 
by  piece,  all  the  depths  of  their  malice,  and  how 
they  even  laid  an  injunction  on  her  before  they 
left  that  she  should  allure  some  young  gallant 
to  her  side,  and  plot  with  him  to  rob  her  hus- 
band, then  burn  the  house  down,  taking  care 
previously  to  poison  all  the  inmates  overnight, 
and,  thus  accompanied,  fly  to  Rome  and  there 
join  fortunes  with  them  once  more. 

"With  such  a  letter  in  hand  the  Abate  did  much 
in  Rome  to  prejudice  his  powerful  friends  against 
the  Comparini  and  to  improve  his  brother's 
prospect  of  a  speedy  solution  of  the  case  in  his 
favor.  He  insinuated,  too,  to  his  confidants  that 
perhaps  there  lay  in  the  letter  the  germ  of  a  dark 
plan  some  day  to  be  put  to  use.  "  Who  knows," 
he  would  whisper,  "  what  such  a  woman  maybe 
capable  of?  You  see  how  she  slips  from  side 
to  side,  one  day  for  Guido,  one  day  for  her 
parents.  Pray  God  she  tries  no  such  odious  plot 
as  she  hints  of  here  upon  poor  brother  Guido !" 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  45 

III. 

Theee  was  in  Arezzo  at  the  time  when  Pom- 
piUa  became  the  bride  of  Count  Guido  a  canon 
of  the  Church  named  Giuseppe  Caponsacchi. 
He  was  a  tall  and  courtly  priest,  with  a  thought- 
ful brow,  and  deep,  earnest,  brooding  eyes.  His 
family  was  the  oldest  and  noblest  of  the  city, 
and  he  was  thus  free  to  move  among  the  most 
eminent  of  his  fellow-townsmen,  their  equal 
in  birth,  wealth,  and  social  graces,  and  their 
superior  in  learning  and  loftiness  of  character. 
Like  most  of  the  prelates  of  his  day,  his  de- 
votion to  the  Church  did  not  prevent  him 
from  courteous  gallantries  among  the  ladies  of 
Arezzo,  for  the  Church  drew  around  her  all  that 
was  fair  and  gay,  encouraged  her  devotees  to 
gather  the  sweets  of  life  as  well  as  the  eternal 
harvest  of  religion. 

One  night,  then,  at  the  theatre,  as  the  Canon 
Caponsacchi  and  a  brother  priest,  the  Canon 
Conti,  cousin  to  Count  Guido,  disported  them- 
selves in  a  merry  mood  proper  to  the  place  and 
the  play,  they  saw  enter,  stand  an  instant  as  if 
insensibly  waiting  a  command,  and  then  finally 
seat  herself,  a  lady  who  was  young,  tall,  and 
beautiful.  A  strangeness  and  a  demure  sadness, 
too,  hovered  about  her  girlish  face,  and  it  im- 
pressed Caponsacchi,  he  said,  as  when  he  got  up 


46  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

once  after  a  matin-song  and  saw  the  workmen 
break  away  a  board  or  two  from  a  rude  box 
lifted  upon  the  altar.  He  looked  again,  and — 
there,  inside,  was  a  Eaphael ! 

lie  was  staring  steadily  at  her  in  his  admira- 
tion of  her  beauty  and  melancholy  charm,  when 
the  laughing  Conti  cried, — 

"  Look  now ;  I'll  make  her  return  your 
gaze." 

He  tossed  a  twisted  paper  of  comfits  into 
her  lap,  then  dodged  behind  Caponsacchi's 
back,  nodding  and  blinking  the  while  over  his 
shoulder.  At  this  she  turned,  looked  their  way 
an  instant,  and  smiled  sadly  at  the  hardihood 
of  the  priestly  gallants. 

" Isn't  she  fair?"  said  Conti.  " She's  my  new 
cousin,  the  Lady  Pompilia.  The  fellow  lurking 
there  in  the  back  of  the  box  is  Count  Guido, 
the  old  scapegrace !  She's  his  wife.  Married 
three  years  ago.  How  he  sulks  1"  And  he  went 
on  to  tell  all  the  gossip  about  the  marriage, 
and  Guido's  poverty  and  Pompilia's  prospective 
wealth.  "  Oh,  to-morrow  I  shall  suffer !"  he 
continued.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  fling  the  sweetmeats. 
To-morrow  I'll  invent  some  fib  and  see  if  I  can't 
find  means  to  take  you  there." 

That  night  and  the  next  day  Caponsacchi 
could  think  of  nothing  else  but  Pompilia  and 
her  beautiful  sad  face.    At  vespers  Conti  leaned 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  47 

beside  his  seat  in  the  choir,  and  part  whispered, 
part  sung  to  hira, — 

"  I've  louted  low,  but  to  no  purpose.  He  saw 
you  staring, — don't  incline  to  know  you  any 
nearer.  He'd  lick  your  shoe,  though,  if  you 
and  certain  others  managed  him  warily  (here  a 
chanted  verse), — but  spare  the  wife !  He  beats 
her  as  it  is.  She's  breaking  her  heart  quite  fast 
enough.  Ah,  you  rogue, — there  are  plenty  of 
others  (another  verse) — little  Light-skirts  yon- 
der,— every  one  knows  what  great  dame  she 
makes  jealous.  Spare  the  wife,  though  !"  And 
then  the  light-hearted  Conti  went  on  with  his 
pious  chant. 

The  next  week  Caponsacchi  was  upbraided 
by  his  patron  the  Archbishop.  "  Young  man," 
said  the  worldly-wise  old  prelate,  "  can  it  be  true 
that  after  all  your  promises  to  be  attentive  to 
the  ladies,  you  go  and  play  truant  all  day  long  in 
church  ?     Are  you  turning  Molinist,  forsooth  ?" 

"  Sir,  what  if  I  turned  Christian  ?"  Caponsac- 
chi answered  quickly.  "  The  fact  is,  I  am  some- 
what troubled  in  my  mind.  Arezzo  is  too 
limited  a  world.  It  is  said  that  a  priest  who 
wants  to  think  should  go  to  Eome :  so  I'm  going 
to  Eome.  I  mean  to  live  alone  and  look  into 
my  heart  a  little." 

"  When  Lent  was  ended,"  he  told  his  friends, 
"  he  would  go  to  Eome." 


48  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

But  much  was  to  happen  before  Caponsacchi 
could  go  to  Eome. 

His  heart  was  touched  into  something  very  like 
love  for  the  fair  woman  who  had  won  his  sym- 
pathy. He  did  not  know,  no  one  ever  knows 
when  once  he  becomes  the  thrall  of  a  genuine 
passion,  how  little  he  is  his  own  master.  He 
tried  to  cast  off  the  alluring  fancy  by  a  renewed 
application  to  his  books ;  but  he  knew  not  that 
the  strongest  symptom  of  the  hold  Pompilia's 
beauty  and  distress  had  taken  upon  him  was 
this  very  disinclination  to  mingle  with  the 
women  he  had  until  lately  seen  almost  daily. 
To  read  and  study  and  ponder  his  religious 
duty  were  in  reality  but  the  readiest  means  of 
keeping  before  his  solitary  mind  the  image  of 
the  ill-wedded  girl. 

Not  long  after  this  he  was  sitting  in  a  deep 
revery  at  twilight,  with  an  unread  book  open 
on  his  knees,  thinking  how  his  life  was  shaken 
under  him, — how  great  a  gap  lies  between 
what  is  and  what  should  be ;  perhaps,  too, 
how  far  off  he,  a  priest  and  celibate,  was  from 
the  sad,  strange  wife  of  Guido, — he  with  a 
whole  store  of  strengths  eating  into  his  heart, 
while  she,  maybe,  was  in  need  of  a  finger's 
help,  and  yet  there  was  no  way  in  the  wide 
world  to  stretch  forth  a  finger  to  help  her. 
Her  smile,  too,  when  he  would  resolutely  begin 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  49 

again  to  scan  the  page,  glowed  through  the 
pi'iuted  lines  and  set  him  reverizing  anew.  In 
truth,  Caponsacchi  was  a  man  of  deep  emotions 
though  outwardly  cold,  and  when  once  a  feeling 
took  possession  of  him  it  became  his  master 
and  swayed  his  entire  being. 

A  gentle  tap  came  upon  the  chamber  door, 
and  he  bade  the  visitor  to  enter.  There  glided 
in  a  masked  and  mutfled  woman,  who  laid  a  let- 
ter lightly  on  the  opened  book,  then  stood  with 
folded  arms  and  an  impatient  movement  of  the 
foot  waiting  for  his  reply. 

The  letter  ran  that  she  to  whom  he  had  lately 
thrown  the  comfits  had  a  warm  heart  to  give 
in  exchange — and  gave  it, — loved  him,  and  thus 
confessed  it.  It  bade  him  render  thanks  for  the 
gift  by  going  that  night  to  the  side  of  her  house 
where  a  small  terrace  overhung  a  blind  and 
deserted  street, — not  the  street  in  front.  Her 
husband  was  away  at  his  villa  of  Yittiano. 

"  And  you,"  he  asked,  "  what  may  you  be  ?" 

"  Count  Guido's  maid,"  she  said ;  "  most  of  us 
have  more  than  one  function  in  his  house.  We 
all  hate  him,  and  the  lady  suffers  so  much.  We 
pity  her,  and  would  help  her  at  any  risk, — espe- 
cially since  her  choice  is  so  wise  a  one."  Here  she 
bowed  meaningly  to  the  Canon.  "  What  answer, 
sir,  may  I  carry  to  the  sweet  Pompilia  ?" 

Then  he  took  pen  and  wrote, — 
I.— c       d  5 


50  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Xo  more  of  this !  That  you  are  indeed  fair 
I  know,  but  other  thoughts  occupy  my  mind  at 
present.  Once  it  would  have  been  otherwise. 
What  made  you,  if  I  may  ask,  marry  your 
hideous  husband  ?  'Twas  a  fault,  and  now  you 
taste  the  bitter  fruit  of  it.     Farewell." 

"  There !"  he  cried,  exultingly,  as  she  snatched 
the  note  and  went  out,  "  the  jealous  miscreant 
is  crushed  by  his  own  engine.  His  mean  soul 
shows  through  the  whole  transparent  trick!" 
And  he  thought  how,  a  month  ago,  he  might 
have  been  the  willing  dupe  of  the  knave,  per- 
haps have  gone  off  to  keep  the  appointment  with 
a  cudgel  hidden  under  his  cloak.  Now,  he  was 
not  in  the  mood. 

But  next  morning  brought  the  messenger 
again,  with  a  second  letter. 

"  You  are  cruel,  my  Thyrsis,"  it  said,  "  and 
Myrtilla  moans  neglected,  but  still  adores  you. 
Why  do  you  not  come  ?  You  must  love  some 
one  else.  I  hear  you  do.  I  blush  to  say  it,  but 
take  me  too !  There's  a  reason .  I  hear  you  mean 
to  go  to  Eome.  I  am  wretched  here ;  the  monster 
tortures  me.  Come  carry  me  with  you.  Come ! 
Say  you  will.  Do  not  write.  I  am  always  at  my 
chamber  window  over  the  terrace.     Come !" 

lie  looked  keenly  at  the  veiled  messenger, 
and,  slyly  feigning,  lifted  an  end  of  her  mask, 
which  let  out  a  smile. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  51 

"  So  you  gave  my  lines  to  the  merry  lady  ?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  almost  kissed  off  the  wax,  and 
what  paper  was  not  quite  kissed  away  she  put 
caressingly  into  her  bosom.  Ah,  she  wept  all 
night  because  you  did  not  come " 

"Then  wrote  this  second  letter?"  said  Capon- 
sacchi. 

"  Yes.  She  may  expect  you,  then,  at  ves- 
pers ?" 

"What  risk  do  we  run  of  being  discovered 
by  Count  Gruido?"  asked  Caponsacchi. 

"Why,  none  at  all,"  said  the  messenger, 
eagerly.  "  He's  away.  He  spends  the  nights 
at  this  season  up  at  his  villa.  Besides,  his  bug- 
bear is  the  Canon  Conti,  not  you.  He'd  never 
suspect  you." 

The  Canon  wrote  :  "  In  vain  do  you  tempt 
me.  I  am  a  priest,  you  are  a  wedded  wife. 
Whatever  kind  of  brute  your  husband  may  be, 
I  have  my  scruples.      Yet,  should  you  really 

show  a  sign  at  the  window And  yet  again, 

no !  Best  be  good.  My  thoughts  are  elsewhere." 
"Take  her  that."  He  reached  out  the  letter 
and  the  woman  withdrew. 

For  a  whole  month  after  this  the  missives 
followed  thick  and  fast.  Caponsacchi  was  now 
and  again  overtaken  in  the  street  by  the  veiled 
messenger,  and  even  beckoned  to  in  the  very 


52  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

church  itself.  Everj'where  that  a  note  could  be 
lodged  in  his  accustomed  paths,  there  he  was 
sure  to  find  one.  But  he  always  answered  in 
the  same  tone,  always  resisted  and  reproached 
the  temptress. 

One  day,  however,  there  was  a  variation  of 
the  monotonous  message. 

"You  have  gained  very  little  by  timidity. 
My  husband  has  found  out  my  love  for  you  at 
length,  and  knows  noAv  that  Cousin  Conti  was 
merely  the  stalking-horse  for  other  game.  My 
husband  will  stick  at  nothing  to  destroy  you  in 
Arezzo.  Stand  prepared  to  leave  for  Eome  at 
once.  I  bade  you  visit  me  here,  but  now  all  is 
changed.  The  season  is  past  at  the  villa,  and  he 
is  at  home.  I  beseech  you  stay  away  from  the 
window  !    He  may  be  posted  there  at  any  time." 

Caponsacchi  was  piqued  by  such  a  warning  to 
do  the  very  thing  it  counselled  him  against. 
Solicited  to  go  to  the  palace,  he  resisted  with 
all  the  force  of  his  sturdy  moral  nature.  Ex- 
horted to  keep  away,  that  same  sturdy  nature 
asserted  its  independence,  stood  upon  its  rights, 
and  urged  him  on.     He  wrote, — 

"You  raise  my  courage,  or,  rather,  provoke 
my  curiosity,  by  your  last  note.  Tell  him  he 
owns  the  palace,  but  not  the  street.  That  be- 
longs to  us  all.  If  I  should  happen  upon  that 
way  to-night,  Guido  will  have  two  troubles : 


The  Bing  and  the  Book.  53 

first  to  get  into  a  rage,  then  to  get  out  again. 
Be  cautious.     At  the  Ave !" 

At  nightfall  Caponsacchi  went  to  the  rendez- 
vous. He  stood,  at  last,  beneath  the  very  win- 
dow. Then,  in  place  of  touching  the  conven- 
tional lute,  he  cried  aloud, — 

"  Out  of  your  hole.  Count  Franceschini!  Show 
yourself!  Hear  what  a  man  thinks  of  a  thing 
like  you,  and  afterwards  take  what  I  mean  to 
give  you !" 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  the  words  when  he 
turned  once  more,  and  there,  at  the  window, 
framed  in  its  black  square,  with  a  lamp  in  her 
hand,  stood  Pompilia.  Before  he  could  quite 
recover  from  his  astonishment  and  assure  him- 
self that  she  was  really  flesh  and  blood,  she  had 
vanished. 

He  thought  they  had  brought  her  there  on 
some  pretence  of  seeing  a  procession  or  a  wed- 
ding-band go  by,  and  that  she  was  unconscious 
that  they  were  using  her  as  a  snare  for  him. 
He  was  about  to  repeat  his  challenge  to  Guido, 
when  all  at  once  she  reappeared,  but  this  time 
on  the  terrace  just  above  him.  She  could  have 
touched  his  bowed  head  as  she  bent  down ;  but 
he  stood  as  if  transfixed. 

"  You  have  sent  me  letters,  sir,"  she  said  in 
a  sad,  lowered  voice  and  with  furtive  glances 
back  into  the  gloom.     "  I  can  neither  read  nor 


54  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

write,  and  hence  I  have  read  none  of  them. 
But  the  woman  you  gave  them  to,  one  of  those 
in  whose  power  I  am,  has  partly  explained  their 
sense  to  me.  She  makes  me  listen,  and  reads  an 
odious  thing, — that  you,  a  priest,  can  love  me, 
a  wife,  because  you  once  got  a  glimpse  of  my 
face.  I  cannot,  sir,  believe  this ;  but,  oh  !  good 
and  true  love  would  help  me  so  much  now.  So 
much,  so  much !  Is  it  possible — can  it  be,  that 
you  do  mean  what  is  good  and  true  ?  You  seem 
the  soul  of  truth,  and  have  not  been  untrue  to 
me ;  I  can  read  it  in  your  eyes.  Will  you  not 
take  me  to  Eome,  then?  When  do  you  go? 
Each  minute  lost  is  fatal.    When,  when  ?  I  ask." 

Caponsacchi  spoke  fervently,  but  in  a  guarded 
whisper,  "  Take  you !  It  would  be  inhuman,  un- 
manly, to  leave  you.  Yes,  you  shall  go  to  your 
friends  to-morrow,  as  soon  as  I  can  arrange  for 
the  journey.  How  shall  I  see  you  and  help 
you  to  escape  ?" 

"O  good  and  true!"  she  said.  "Pass  to- 
morrow at  this  hour.  If  I  am  at  the  open 
window,  all  is  well.  If  I  am  absent,  drop  a 
handkerchief  and  walk  by.  I  shall  see  you 
in  my  hiding-place,  and  know  that  everything 
is  ready.  Return  at  the  same  time  the  next 
evening,  and  the  next,  and  so,  till  we  can  meet 
and  speak." 

"To-morrow  at  this  hour  I  will  be  here,"  said 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  55 

Caponsacchi,  and  then  she  withdrew  into  the 
house. 

Caponsacchi  wandered  away  through  the 
streets,  unconscious  whither  he  went.  He  was 
full  of  conflicting  thoughts,  of  reasons  for  and 
against  his  promised  course,  of  fears  lest  he 
should  bring  Pompilia  shame  by  helping  her  as 
she  had  asked,  and  of  fierce  determination  to 
leave  her  no  longer  at  Guido's  mercy. 

When  the  gray  of  morning  broke  he  found 
himself  facing  his  own  church  of  the  Pieve, 
and  felt  the  reproaches  of  his  broken  vows. 
The  Church  seemed  to  tell  him  to  give  Pompilia 
up;  and,  rising  to  the  level  of  self-renuncia- 
tion which  she  had  taught  him,  he  resolved  to 
obey  it.  He  went  home  and  tried  to  busy  him- 
self with  his  books,  but  the  effort  came  to  naught. 
He  saw  nothing  save  the  one  black  name  across 
every  white  page.  When  sunset  came  he  madly 
yearned  to  go  to  her,  but  he  resisted.  What  if 
he  were  charged  with  cowardice  and  fear  ?  He 
knew  she  would  divine  his  true  motive. 

But  the  next  evening  another  thought  came 
to  him  and  absolved  him  from  his  determination. 
Being  a  priest,  he  persuaded  himself  that  he 
must  not  neglect  the  priest's  peculiar  duties. 
He  decided  to  go  to  her  as  a  friend,  to  advise 
her  and  administer  spiritual  comfort. 

There  she  stood,  waiting,  oyer  the  terrace, 


56  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  when  he  drew  near  she  spoke  with  hurried 
anxiety. 

"  AYhy,  why  have  you  made  me  wait  two  long 
days?  We  are  both  in  the  same  mind:  why 
delay  ?  You  know  my  need.  Still,  through  God's 
pity  on  me,  there  is  time !  Oh,  save  me,  save  me !" 

"  Lady,  waste  no  word,  even  to  forgive  me," 
he  passionately  answered.  "  Leave  this  house 
to-morrow  night  just  before  daybreak ;  there's  a 
new  moon  now,  and  there  will  be  no  light  in 
the  early  morning.  Go  to  the  Torrione,  step 
across  the  broken  wall,  take  San  Clemente, — 
there's  no  other  gate  unguarded  then, — cross  to 
the  inn  beyond,  and  I  will  be  there." 

"  If  I  can  find  the  way,"  she  said, — "  but  I  will 
find  it!  Go  now!"  And  then  she  too  turned 
and  went  away. 

Caponsacchi  went  home  and  made  what  ex- 
cuses were  needful  to  his  servants.  Then  he  put 
on  a  secular  costume,  and,  dreaming  all  the  way 
of  the  ecstatic  minute  when  Pompilia  should 
appear  to  him  at  the  inn,  wandered  thither 
hours  before  the  time  appointed. 

When  the  day  began  to  break  she  came  down 
the  dark  road  and  over  the  ruined  wall.  She 
was  dressed  all  in  black  from  head  to  foot.  She 
did  not  speak,  but  glided  swiftly  into  the  car- 
riage. Caponsacchi  cried  to  the  postilion  hur- 
riedly and  under  his  breath. 


The  Bing  and  the  Book.  57 

"  To  Kome,  then  ask  what  you  will !" 
He  sprang  in  beside  her,  and  at  last  they 
were  alone. 

IV. 

It  was  near  noonday  on  the  morning  of  Pom- 
pilia's  flight  that,  as  Count  Guido  afterwards 
averred  upon  his  trial,  he  rose  from  bed,  startled 
into  consciousness  by  some  unwonted  noise 
among  his  servants,  and  found  himself  dazed 
and  bewildered.  He  had  a  strange  taste  in  his 
mouth,  he  said,  as  of  a  sickening  opiate,  and  his 
eyes  were  heavy  and  sightless.  His  wife  was 
gone  from  his  side,  and  scattered  about  the 
room  were  a  rifled  clothes-chest,  a  money-coffer 
turned  upside  down,  and  several  empty  jewel- 
boxes. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  he  demanded  sternly 
of  his  servants  ;  but  they  had  been  drugged  as 
well  as  he,  and  it  dawned  very  gradually  upon 
them  that  Pompilia  had  eloped. 

"  But  whither,  and  with  whom  ?"  asked  Guido. 

"  With  whom  but  the  Canon  ?"  they  answered 
in  chorus,  and  then,  with  subtly-hinted  igno- 
rance and  assumed  despair  and  rage,  he  listened 
to  the  whole  story  of  Caponsacchi's  supposed 
correspondence  with  his  wife.  He  could  scarcely 
forbear  a  chuckle  at  the  complete  success  of  his 
plan,  but  he  kept  up  the  appearance  of  grief 


58  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

with  excellent  effect,  the  more  especially  as 
most  of  his  servants  were  awake  to  his  deceit, 
and  the  gathered  neighbors,  though  not  perhaps 
conscious  of  his  last  baseness,  were  nevertheless 
too  rejoiced  at  the  escape  of  the  ill-treated  wife 
to  scan  very  critically  the  actions  of  the  hus- 
band. 

Guido  got  into  the  saddle  at  once,  and,  un- 
accompanied by  even  a  single  servant,  for  rea- 
sons of  his  own,  set  out  in  pursuit  of  the  fugi- 
tives. He  found  by  inquiring  at  the  earlier 
stages  on  the  Eoman  road,  that  they  had  a  start 
of  eight  hours  at  least,  but  he  cantered  steadily 
on,  grim  and  determined,  his  one  hope  being 
to  overtake  them  before  they  actually  reached 
Eome,  where  they  would  pass  into  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  Church  and  so  elude  the  full  extent 
of  his  vengeance. 

Meanwhile,  Caponsacchi  and  Pompilia  had 
driven  with  unbroken  speed,  scarce  resting  for 
the  bread  and  wine  which  were  handed  them 
while  the  horses  were  changing,  and  never 
alighting  the  whole  day  or  night  through  until 
they-were  within  twelve  hours'  journey  of  Eome. 
Then  in  the  early  morning  they  quickly  started 
off  again,  after  the  exhausted  Pompilia  had 
received  a  bowl  of  milk  from  a  woman  at  the 
post-house  gate ;  and  they  made  no  other  stops 
until  they  had  reached  the  little  white-walled 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  69 

clump  of  houses  and  cypress-trees  which  is 
called  Castelnuovo. 

"  Eome !"  cried  Caponsacchi,  "  Eome  is  the 
next  stage,  think !    You  are  saved,  sweet  lady !" 

The  sky  was  aflame  with  a  fierce  red  sunset, 
and  when  Pompilia  awoke  at  his  voice  she 
looked  about  her  in  a  bewildered  way  as  if 
dazzled  by  the  burst  of  color. 

"No  farther,  no  farther!"  she  exclaimed;  "I 
can  go  no  farther  now !"  And  then  she  swooned 
and  lay  still  and  white  in  Caponsacchi's  arms. 

He  bore  her  down  from  the  coach  and  into 
the  inn  through  a  pitying  group  of  grooms  and 
idlers,  and  laid  her  on  a  couch  within-doors. 
The  host  urged  him  to  let  her  rest  an  hour  or 
so,  and  though  he  dreaded  to  halt  before  they 
entered  Eome,  yet  he  could  not  refuse.  He 
paced  the  passage  and  kept  watch  all  night 
long,  but  she  made  not  a  single  movement  nor 
uttered  even  a  sigh.  They  counselled  him  to 
have  no  fear,  she  slept  so  soundly ;  but  he  feared 
more  and  more  as  the  hours  sped  on  that 
something  would  happen  to  arrest  their  flight 
and  prevent  the  fulfilment  of  Pompilia's  dearest 
wish  of  joining  her  parents. 

At  the  first  touch  of  midnight  gray  in  the  east 
he  was  in  the  yard,  urging  the  sleepy  grooms 
to  have  out  the  coach  and  horses ;  offering  them 
anything,  all  he  possessed,  if  they  would  only 


60  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

make  haste.  They  worked  drowsily  enough  in 
the  doubtful  morning;  but  Caponsacchi  felt  that 
he  must  awaken  Pompilia  even  now,  early  as 
it  was,  and  he  turned  towards  the  steps  to 
ascend  to  her. 

There,  facing  him  in  the  dusk  court-yard, 
stood  the  grim  and  revengeful  Count  Guido. 

"  Good-morning  to  your  priestship!"  the  Count 
half  hissed  out  with  bitter  emphasis.  "  Come, 
the  lady ! — how  could  you  leave  her  so  soon  ? 
You've  escaped  my  treatment ;  you  slept  with- 
out drugs,  I  see.  But  I  have  you  at  last !"  He 
spoke  now  in  a  higher  voice,  and  addressed  the 
officers  he  had  brought  in  with  him. 

"Help,  friends!  Here,  this  is  a  priest,  this 
rascal  in  his  smart  disguise,  with  a  sword  at 
his  side.  My  runaway  wife  is  up-stairs.  Do 
your  duty,  quick.  Arrest  and  hold  him. 
There,  bravo !  Now  come  up  with  me  and  take 
her." 

On  either  side  of  Caponsacchi  instantly  stood 
an  officer,  or  he  would  have  thrown  himself, 
boiling  with  hatred,  upon  the  craven  Count, 
and  plunged  the  sword  he  was  so  little  used  to 
handling  through  his  heart.  The  Count  instinc- 
tively felt  this,  and  kept  at  a  good  arm's  length 
from  him,  even  while  he  was  in  the  custody  of 
the  officers.  But  when  Guido  spoke  of  cap- 
turing her,  Caponsacchi  was  sobered. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  61 

"Let  me  lead  the  way,"  he  exclaimed,  "and 
see,  when  we  meet,  if  you  can  detect  any  guilt 
on  her  face;  then  judge  between  us  and  him." 
And  he  pointed  contemptuously  towards  Count 
Guido. 

They  all  went  up  together  and  entered 
Pompilia's  chamber.  She  lay  there  in  the 
early  morning  sunlight  as  calmly  as  when 
Caponsacchi  had  brought  her  in  the  evening 
before. 

Guido  stalked  up  to  the  couch  and  pointed 
to  the  pale  face  on  the  pillow. 

"  Here  she  lies,  feigning  sleep !  Seize  her, 
bind  her !"  he  said. 

She  started  up  then,  aroused  by  the  tumult 
of  many  feet  and  voices,  and  stood  erect,  face 
to  face  with  her  husband.  He  fell  back  to 
the  alcove  of  the  window,  his  black  figure 
showing  like  a  blot  against  the  flood  of  morn- 
ing light,  and  as  he  retreated,  all  the  latent 
energy  of  her  being  was  kindled  by  the  sight 
of  him. 

"Away  from  between  me  and  my  doom!" 
she  cried.  "  I  am  in  God's  hands  now, — no 
longer  yours!"  And  she  pointed  scornfully, 
like  an  angered  queen,  to  the  door,  looking 
across  her  shoulder  the  while  fearlessly  into  his 
face. 

Caponsacchi  made  an  effort  to  reach  her  side 

6 


62  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

from  where  he  stood  in  the  door-way,  but  he 
was  pinioned  fast.'  As  he  struggled  the  crowd 
pressed  upon  him. 

"  And  him,  too !"  she  cried ;  "  you  outrage  him 
with  your  vile  touch?     But  I'll  save  him !" 

She  leapt  at  Guido's  sword,  drew  it,  and 
brandished  it,  crying,  "Die,  in  God's  name!" 
but  they  closed  about  her  twelve  to  one  and 
disarmed  her,  and  she  lay  at  last,  overcome  and 
deadly  white,  upon  the  bed. 

Pompilia's  threatening  use  of  the  sword  had 
intimidated  Guido,  and  he  hastened  to  have  her 
taken  into  custody. 

"You  saw,  you  heard?"  he  cried  again  and 
again.  "  Bear  witness  to  her  disloyalty  and 
write  down  her  words  !"  Then  he  commanded 
them  to  carry  Caponsacchi  and  Pompilia  to 
the  prison,  meanwhile  himself  undertaking  the 
search  of  the  apartment.  His  fear  was  fast 
passing  away  now,  and  he  began  to  strut  about 
the  room  directing  the  attendants  hither  and 
thither  in  search  of  incriminating  booty.  Not 
a  few  winks  were  exchanged  by  the  gossips 
who  watched  the  work  ;  and  whispered  sar- 
casms, levelled  at  Guido,  clearly  spoke  the 
temper  of  the  crowd.  He  was  becoming  a 
laughing-stock,  revealing  his  true  character 
under  his  temporary  sense  of  triumph,  and  the 
sympathy  of  the  by-standers,  which  had  eddied 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  63 

in  his  favor  at  the  first,  was  fast  flowing  out 
to  Pompilia  and  Caponsacchi, 

But  the  Canon  now,  as  the  officers  made  ready 
to  lead  him  away,  asserted  himself,  and  claimed 
the  treatment  due  to  his  station  and  influence. 

"  We  are  both  aliens  here,"  he  said,  "  both 
noblemen  of  Tuscany.  I  am  the  nobler,"  and 
he  proudly  drew  himself  up  to  all  his  manly 
height,  "  and  bear  a  name  you  all  know  and  re- 
spect. I  could,  if  I  wished,  refer  our  cause  to  the 
Ducal  court,  but  I  prefer,  being  the  priest  he 
tells  you  I  am,  and  disguised  for  reasons  I  will 
reveal  to  my  judges,  to  appeal  to  the  Church  I 
serve." 

Such  an  appeal  was  lawful  and  could  not  be 
refused.  They  therefore  bore  the  Canon  and 
Pompilia  separately  to  Eome  to  await  their 
trial  by  the  judicial  officers  of  the  Church. 

Guido  likewise,  crestfallen  and  dishonored 
now,  despised  by  those  who  would  have  avenged 
honor  by  the  sword,  and  ridiculed  by  those  who 
had  seen  his  craven  conduct  at  Castelnuovo, 
made  his  way  to  Eome,  carrying  such  evidence 
against  the  pair  as  he  alleged  he  had  found  at 
his  palace  at  Arezzo  and  in  the  inn-room  at 
Castelnuovo.  This  consisted  of  all  the  love-let- 
ters which  he  charged  them  with  exchanging, 
and  much  impassioned  verse  written  to  Pom- 
pilia by  the  amorous  Canon. 


64  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

These  things,  with  the  letter  written  by  Pom- 
pilia  under  his  direction  to  his  brother  Paolo, 
Guido  brought  forth  in  the  trial  which  promptly 
took  place ;  but  he  was  confronted  by  the  evi- 
dence that  Pompilia  could  neither  read  nor 
write,  and  by  a  full  and  convincing  denial  from 
Caponsacchi  that  he  had  ever  written  such 
letters  as  were  produced  in  a  hand  which  simu- 
lated his  own.  The  court  accepted  this  opposing 
testimony,  but  there  had  been  an  undoubted 
wi'ong  done  to  Count  Guido  by  the  Canon  and 
Pompilia,  and,  taking  the  accustomed  middle 
course,  it  imposed  upon  Caponsacchi  a  nomi- 
.nal  banishment  to  Civita  for  three  years,  and 
consigned  Pompilia  for  a  season  to  the  convent 
of  the  Convertites  at  Rome. 

This  was  not  the  kind  of  verdict  that  Count 
Guido  had  hoped  for.  His  family  pride  and 
self-love  had  been  deeply  wounded  by  the  con- 
duct of  the  Comparini  and  by  the  discovery 
of  Pompilia's  base  birth.  But  his  was  a  vin- 
dictive nature  rather  than  a  vain  one,  and  the 
miscarriage  of  his  well-laid  plot  for  Pompilia's 
undoing  was  more  painful  to  him  than  even  the 
injury  done  to  the  reputation  of  his  noble  house. 
He  was  welcomed,  moreover,  on  his  return  to 
Arezzo,  whither  he  went  at  the  close  of  the 
trial,  by  an  exasperating  volley  of  sly  questions 
and  innuendoes  impeaching  his  courage. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  65 

"  What,  back — you,  and  no  wife  ?  Left  her 
with  the  Penitents,  hey?"  And  they  plied  him 
again  and  again  for  news  of  Caponsacchi.  "  So 
he  fired  up,  did  he, — showed  fight,  and  all  that  ? 
And  you  drew  also,  but  you  didn't  fight.  Well, 
that's  wiser ;  he's  an  impetuous  fellow,  and  dan- 
gerous when  he's  angry." 

This  went  on  until  the  Count  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  His  own  sense  of  deficiency  in  courage 
gnawed  at  his  heart,  and  he  longed  for  resolu- 
tion enough  to  take  vengeance  on  some  of  his 
tormentors,  but  he  dared  not  venture  it.  His 
ardor  cooled  at  the  very  touch  of  the  sword- 
hilt. 

But  there  was  one  way  of  harassing  the  real 
enemy  and  at  the  same  time  vindicating  his  name 
and  house.  His  wife's  punishment  was  really 
equivalent  to  an  acknowledgment  on  the  part 
of  the  court  that  she  was  deemed  guilty  of  in- 
fidelity, and  upon  this  ground  he  could  readily 
apply  for  a  divorce.  This  he  promptly  did, 
meaning  by  one  fortunate  stroke  to  be  rid  of 
the  hated  Pompilia  and  to  secui'e  to  himself  her 
coveted  dowry,  the  source  of  all  his  troubles. 

But  the  Comparini  were  as  wary  as  himself 
They  immediately  met  this  appeal  with  a 
counter-claim.  Pompilia  was  made  to  demand 
a  divorce  from  Count  Guido  Franceschini  on 
the  score  of  cruelty  inflicted  upon  her  in  his 
l.—e  6* 


66  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

household,  and  by  himself,  his  mother,  and  his 
cousin,  the  Canon  Conti. 

Here  was  a  serious  dilemma.  If  this  charge 
were  substantiated  and  a  divorce  granted  to 
Pompilia,  the  dowry,  all  he  really  desired  and 
contended  for,  could  never  be  his.  He  was  not 
a  brave  man,  nor  was  he  a  resolute  one,  and 
these  accumulating  ills,  which  to  a  worthier 
nature  would  have  been  spurs  to  firmness  and 
vigorous  action,  were  gradually  unmanning  him 
and  dragging  him  down  to  the  level  of  brutal 
revenge. 

One  more  blow  was  to  come,  and  it  came 
quickly  and  cruelly.  News  now  arrived  at 
Arezzo  that,  Pompilia's  health  demanding 
change  after  three  weeks'  confinement  in  the 
convent,  the  court  had  consented  to  grant  her 
request  for  transfer  to  some  private  place  where 
8h(i  could  breathe  purer  air  and  receive  more 
wholesome  food.  What  was  more  likely  than 
that  she  should  choose  the  Comparini's  deep- 
shaded  villa  by  the  Pauline  gate  ?  There,  at  any 
rate,  she  became  domiciled  before  long,  under 
nominal  imprisonment,  but  really  free  to  go  and 
come  as  she  liked. 

To  the  Abate  Paolo  in  Eome,  who  saw  in 
this  arrangement  an  escape  from  the  charges 
for  Pompilia's  maintenance  which  had  hitherto 
been  made  upon  Guido's  purse,  it  was  a  welcome 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  67 

piece  of  news.  But  to  Guido,  already  goaded 
to  frantic  hatred  of  the  Comparini,  it  was  a 
sore  and  deep  wound.  To  think  that  he  had 
driven  her  from  his  home  in  the  company  of 
the  man  she  loved,  for  this !  To  think  that  he 
himself  was  responsible  for  her  restoration  to 
the  place  of  all  others  he  wished  to  bar  her 
from!  The  thought  was  maddening,  and  he 
brooded  alone  in  his  gloomy  palace,  over- 
whelmed with  miseries  and  nui'sing  a  fierce 
resentment. 

But  now  came  a  letter  from  Paolo  bluntly 
saying,— 

"  You  are  blessed  with  an  heir.  A  child  was 
born  to  Pompilia  in  the  Pauline  villa  on  Wednes- 
day last.  This  accounts  for  her  sudden  flight 
from  the  convent.  The  Comparini  have  hidden 
the  child  away  to  avoid  your  claims.  They 
mean  to  use  it  themselves :  they  well  know  its 
worth  to  them." 

This  brief  bit  of  news  acted  like  a  spark  of 
flint  upon  Gruido's  inflammable  feelings.  Vanity, 
disappointment,  greed,  and  untold  rancor  and 
pain,  burst  into  one  consuming  desire  for  re- 
venge. Subtle  calculation,  which  was  with  him 
an  innate  habit,  also  contributed  to  this  burn- 
ing impulse.  Were  once  Pietro,  Violante,  and 
Pompilia  out  of  the  way  and  the  child  adjudged 
his  own,  there  would  be  little  chance  for  the 


68  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

wealth  to  elude  him.  The  legality  of  Pompilia's 
bii'th  was  still  an  undecided  question,  and  with 
herself  and  her  parents  gone,  who  could  raise  a 
breath  of  opposition  to  the  claims  of  an  heir  so 
clearly  entitled  to  the  inheritance  as  Pompilia's 
son? 

Count  Guido  was  at  his  villa  in  Yittiano  when 
the  news  reached  him,  and  the  sting  of  all  his 
accumulated  bitterness  impelled  him  to  sudden 
action.  He  called  in  his  serving-people  and  told 
them  his  wrongs.  Though  they  had  no  reason 
to  love  a  master  who  was  close  and  cruel,  yet 
their  loyalty  to  his  house  and  their  sense  of 
justice,  to  which  he  appealed  with  all  the  art 
taught  him  by  his  life  of  intrigue  in  Eome, 
were  aroused  by  his  subdued  yet  fierce  story. 
He  pictured  his  happiness  with  his  young  wife, 
and  dwelt  on  the  deep  injury  done  him  by 
Caponsacchi,  who  stole  her  away  from  him. 
They  scarcely  waited  for  the  end  before  they 
began  to  murmur  and  raise  threatening  hands. 
Their  dark  eyes  flashed  a  dangerous  light,  and 
at  last  they  broke  out  in  a  clamor  for  vengeance. 

"  Not  one  of  us,"  said  a  stalwart  vine-dresser, 
— "  not  one  of  us  who  dig  your  soil  and  dress 
your  vines  but  would  have  brained  him, — the 
man  that  tempted  her.  And  her! — we  would 
have  staked  her  too  for  her  own  share." 

Then  Guido  fixed  on  the  first  four  who  caught 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  69 

his  eye,  resolute  and  lusty  yeomen  with  fresh 
hearts  and  all  the  young  Italian  fire  unquenched 
in  their  veins.  He  chose  these,  filled  his  purse 
with  what  coin  was  left  by  the  fleeing  pair,  put 
on  the  first  rough  country  dress  he  found ;  then, 
armed  with  the  weapons  that  came  first  to  hand, 
the  five  flung  out  into  the  road  and  galloped  on 
to  Rome. 

It  was  on  Christmas  Eve  that  they  found 
themselves  in  the  holy  city,  and  they  went  di- 
rectly to  the  Abate  Paolo's  house;  but  either 
because  he  had  scented  the  coming  trouble,  with 
his  subtle  foresight,  or  because  he  had  been  sent 
away  on  some  sudden  mission  for  his  patron 
Cardinal,  Paolo  was  absent  from  home. 

Guido  and  his  servants,  being  thus  foiled  of 
lodgings  and  a  friendly  hand,  wandered  about 
the  city  for  a  week,  meditating,  but  not  daring, 
in  the  holy  season,  to  do  the  deed  they  were 
bent  upon.  Everywhere  the  streets  were  full  of 
festivity  and  mirth,  and  through  all  the  church 
doors  came  constant  echoes  of  the  chant  of 
"Peace  on  earth."  But  to  Guido  the  refrain 
brought  no  change  of  heart.  He  knew  no  peace 
and  could  gain  none  until  his  enemies  were  de- 
stroyed. His  brother's  deserted  house  mocked 
him  with  the  remembrance  of  past  happiness 
and  ease  of  heart.  His  whole  life  seemed  barren 
of  good.     He  saw  nothing  of  the  face  of  the 


70  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Holy  Infant,  because  the  face  of  Satan  lurked 
always  behind  it.  He  ti'ied  to  pray,  but  his  lips 
murmured  only  hatred.  The  song  of  "  Peace  on 
earth"  pealed  louder  and  louder;  but  he  mur- 
mured in  reply,  "  O  Lord,  how  long,  how  long 
to  be  unavenged  ?" 

On  the  ninth  day  the  strain  of  these  conflict- 
ing purposes  became  unbearable,  and  he  felt 
that  he  must  act  or  himself  perish.  He  started 
up  and  said,  "  There  must  be  an  end  of  this ;" 
and  then  came  the  message,  scratching  in  his 
brain  like  the  tick  of  a  death-watch,  "  One  more 
concession,  only  one  sure  way,  and  but  one,  to 
determine  the  truth.  Decide  instantly;  then 
act !" 

And  act  he  did.  He  called  his  companions 
together  and  instructed  them  in  their  parts. 
They  were  to  steal  through  the  city  that  night, 
by  certain  blind  cuts  and  black  turns  which 
they  had  already  explored,  to  the  little  suburban 
villa  by  the  Pauline  gate. 

Accordingly,  when  the  sun  had  gone  down, 
they  set  out  through  the  snow,  and  reached 
Pietro's  villa  without  a  single  suspicious  eye  to 
hinder  their  course. 

V. 

AViTUiN  the  villa  life  had  taken  on  much 
of  its  old  appearance  since  Pompilia's  return. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  71 

The  Comparini  were  still  in  sore  need,  and  the 
gossip  arising  from  their  now  notorious  affairs 
had  exposed  the  encroaching  traces  of  poverty 
which  they  had  taken  such  pains  to  conceal. 
The  birth  of  Pompilia's  child,  too,  had  brought 
new  cares,  but  it  had  also  brought  new  and 
tenderer  sentiments  to  the  fireside,  so  that  all 
else  which  touched  upon  the  unfortunate  mar- 
riage was  allowed  to  rest  silently  in  the  hearts 
of  the  restored  household.  The  worst  had  come 
and  gone,  they  said,  and  they  were  still  together 
to  bless  and  comfort  each  other,  and  they  asked 
for  nothing  more. 

The  villa  by  the  Pauline  gate,  which  looked 
gloomy  enough  in  the  dusk  shade  of  the  sum- 
mer leaves,  was  not  made  much  more  cheerful 
by  the  bare  limbs  which  now  rose  before  it 
and  partly  screened  it  from  the  road.  It  was 
a  place  at  all  seasons  of  the  year  to  conjure  up 
thoughts  of  midnight  alarms  and  masked  rob- 
bery; and  when  the  snow-laden  winds  blew 
about  its  gables  it  had  more  than  ever  the  ap- 
pearance of  inviting  stealthy  crimes. 

But  the  interior  was  cheerful  enough,  what- 
ever the  outside  might  suggest.  Around  the 
blazing  hearth  the  family  group  sat  comfortably 
bending  in  to  the  glow  of  the  wood  and  talked  of 
Pompilia's  boy,  what  he  should  do  and  be  when 
he  was  grown  up,  and  what  name  he  should 


72  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

bear, — Pompilia  said  Gaetano, — and  a  thousand 
fancies  more  wliich  Pompilia  set  on  foot,  and 
which  the  old  couple  spun  eagerly  and  endlessly 
out. 

They  had  given  Pompilia  each  an  arm  to  lead 
her  about  from  the  couch  to  the  fireside,  and 
now  they  laughed  as  she  lay  safe  in  her  seat, 
predicting  how,  one  day,  she  should  have  a 
strong  son's  arm  to  help  her  in  her  need.  Then 
they  all  laughed  again  in  quiet  contentment  and 
wished  one  another  once  more  a  happy  New 
Year. 

But  Pietro  still  dwelt  a  little  on  his  wrongs 
and  his  slender  purse,  and  occasionally  he  would 
break  forth  with  half  a  sigh  for  the  old  friends 
and  old  habits. 

"  Our  cause  is  gained,"  he  said,  "  but  we  will 
avoid  the  city  now, — no  more  parade  and  feast- 
ing, and  all  that.  We'll  go  to  the  other  villa 
still  farther  off,  where  we  can  watch  the  boy 
grow.  Ah,  well,  one  or  two  friends  may  still 
hunt  us  up, — and  I'll  have  a  flask  of  the  old 
sort  for  them,  never  fear." 

"You  chatter  like  a  crow,"  said  Yiolante. 
"Pompilia's  tired  now  and  must  go  to  bed. 
Enough  for  the  first  day,  a  little  more  to-mor- 
row, and  the  next  she  can  begin  to  knit.  I've 
spun  wool  enough  ;  see,  child !"  And  she  held 
up  the  bulky  skeins. 


Tlie  Ring  and  the  Book.  73 

The  next  day  about  noon  Pietro  wont  out. 
He  was  so  happy,  and  talked  so  much,  that 
Violante  pushed  him  forth  into  the  cold. 

"  So  much  to  see  in  the  churches,"  she  said. 
"Swathe  your  throat  three  times  round,  and 
above  all  beware  of  the  slippery  ways,  and 
bring  us  all  the  news  by  supper-time." 

He  came  back  late  and  laid  by  his  cloak,  staif, 
and  hat.  They  were  powdered  thick  with  snow, 
and  Pompilia  and  Violante  laughed  at  them,  as 
he  rolled  out  a  great  ashen  log  upon  the  hearth 
and  bade  Yiolante  treat  to  a  flask  in  return 
for  his  obedience.  Ay,  he  had  gone  faithfully 
through  the  seven  churches,  and  there  was 
none  to  his  mind  like  old  San  Giovanni. 

"  There's  the  fold,"  he  said,  "  and  the  sheep, 
in  a  flock,  as  big  as  cats !  And  such  a  shepherd, 
— half  life-size, — he  starts  up  and  hears  the 
angel " 

Then  at  the  door  there  came  a  tap.  They  all 
Btarted  up  together.  Yiolante  went  over,  and, 
without  lifting  the  latch,  called, — 

«  Who's  there  ?" 

She  stood  listening. 

After  a  moment's  silence  some  one  on  the 
other  side  answered, — 

"  Giuseppe  Caponsaeehi." 

It  was  Guido  who  had  answered  As  the  five 
stealthy  figures  stole  u])  to  the  villa  door,  they 
D  7 


74  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

saw  the  warm  light  stream  through  the  cracks, 
and  felt  the  sense  of  life  only  an  inch  or  two 
within.  Some  angel  must  have  whispered  Guido 
to  give  his  victims  one  more  chance,  for  he  bade 
the  others  stand  aside,  and  himself  knocked  at 
the  door.  As  Violante  spoke,  he  resolved  to 
make  a  last  trial  of  Pompilia.  If  the  door 
opened  to  Caponsacchi's  name,  her  guilt  was 
proven  and  his  deed  would  be  justified.  Per- 
haps, too,  he  welcomed,  even  at  this  extremity, 
any  excuse  which  would  afford  him  an  oppor- 
tunity for  retreat. 

He  called  the  name,  therefore,  and  the  door 
was  promptly  opened.  Violante  stood  with 
welcoming  hands  upon  the  threshold.  Pompilia 
had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  her  hands,  joy- 
ously clasped,  told  how  eager  she  was  to  see  her 
rescuer.  Old  Pietro  turned  half  around  from 
the  fire  with  a  dubious  look.  He  scented  new 
trouble  in  this  last  intrusion. 

There  was  a  pause  outside,  and  Violante  was 
surprised  to  see  three  or  four  dark  figures,  who 
drew  farther  into  the  gloom  as  she  advanced  to 
the  step.  Then,  presently,  one  broke  from  the 
rest  and  strode  boldly  forward.  It  was  Guido, 
whose  hatred  had  overcome  his  cowardice.  In 
an  instant  and  without  warning  he  sprang  upon 
her,  and  she  fell  across  the  door-way  wounded 
with  a  dagger-thrust.      He  stepped  over  her 


The  Ring  and  the  Booh  75 

and  plunged  into  the  room,  and  then  the  rest 
entered  and  threw  themselves  upon  old  Pietro 
and  Pompilia. 

When  all  was  done,  the  five  dark  figures 
emerged  from  the  door-way  and  filed  noiselessly 
out  through  the  garden  into  the  high-road.  The 
snow  on  the  ground  muffled  their  tread,  and 
they  followed  their  leader  swiftly  and  without 
a  word  up  the  deserted  road. 

But  the  noises  within  had  aroused  the  neigh- 
bors, and  before  the  murderers  were  well  out 
of  sight  friends  from  the  near-by  mill  and 
grange  came  flocking  in  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. They  were  followed  promptly  by  the 
Public  Force,  the  Head  of  which,  tracking  the 
footprints  in  the  snow,  was  soon  out  in  hot 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives. 

Guido  and  his  men  had  the  start  and  chose 
their  own  direction,  and  they  travelled  rapidly, 
notwithstanding  the  condition  of  the  wintry 
road.  But,  in  spite  of  his  craftiness  and  his 
week  of  calculating  preparation,  Guido  had 
neglected  to  provide  himself  with  the  necessary 
passes  for  travelling  by  post.  He  boldly  de- 
manded horses  from  the  postmaster,  and  dis- 
creetly slid  a  ducat  into  his  palm,  whispering 
how  he,  the  Count,  and  his  four  knaves  had  just 
been  mauling  an  enemy  whose  kindred  might 


76  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

prove  troublesome :  they  wanted  horses  in  a 
hurry.  But  the  postmaster  refused  unless  the 
Count  could  show  him  the  Permission.  Guido 
whispered  .again,  this  time  that  he  was  a  Duke, 
not  a  Count,  that  the  dead  man  was  a  Jew. 
But  he  found  he  was  dealing  with  perhaps  the 
one  scrupulous  fellow  in  all  Eome.  The  Count 
was  without  a  hat  and  was  splashed  with  blood. 
The  determined  postmaster  finally  put  by  his 
bribe  and  insisted  on  the  rules  of  the  road. 

"  Where  is  the  seal  of  the  Eoman  Police  ? 
You  might  have  had  it  half  an  hour  ago  for  the 
asking." 

"  Lost,"  said  Guido. 

"  Get  another,  then,  or  you  get  no  horses 
here."  And  he  stood  stubbornly  blocking  their 
passage  in  the  midst  of  the  road. 

But  he  dared  not  use  force.  He  was  only  one 
to  a  grim  and  menacing  band  of  five.  They 
scowled  fiercely  at  him  and  strode  past  into 
the  darkness.  There  was  no  alternative  but  to 
travel  afoot,  and  this  they  did  for  twenty  miles, 
panting  and  plunging  on  the  miry  road,  through 
the  bleak,  open  country,  through  the  still  and 
lightless  villages  by  the  way,  and  on  as  far  as 
Baccano. 

The  rough  beginning  of  the  journey  taxed  the 
strength  of  the  younger  men,  but  much  more 
that   of  Count  Guido,  who  was  overweary  in 


The  Bing  and  the  Book.  77 

soul  and  flesh,  for  he  had  to  think  as  well  as  act. 
When  they  had  reached  Baccano,  a  town  this 
side  of  the  boundary  of  Tuscany  and  still 
within  the  jurisdiction  of  Eome,  they  found 
shelter  in  an  outlying  grange.  They  had  hoped 
to  set  foot  on  Tuscan  soil  before  resting,  and 
thus  they  might  have  bidden  defiance  to  the 
severity  of  Eoman  law ;  yet  they  sank  down 
exhausted  almost  within  sight  of  the  border. 

But  the  tireless  officer  of  the  Eoman  Force 
had  followed  them  unceasingly  through  the 
night,  and  tracked  them  in  the  early  morning 
to  the  deserted  grange  at  Baccano. 

There  they  lay  in  a  lifeless  heap,  one  across 
the  other,  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind  through  the 
fatigues  and  burning  passions  of  their  night's 
work.  They  were  red  from  head  to  heel,  and 
their  weapons  bespoke  the  loathsome  work  they 
had  been  used  in. 

When  at  last  he  was  aroused  by  the  voices  and 
the  rough  handling  of  the  officers,  Guido  put  on 
a  bold  front  and  furiously  demanded  to  know 
why  he  was  thus  disturbed,  what  right  they  had 
to  dog  the  steps  of  a  stranger  and  his  servants 
in  Eome  ? 

"  What  am  I  charged  with  ?"  he  indignantly 
cried.     "Who  is  my  accuser?" 

"  Why,  naturally,  your  wife,"  was  the  grim 
answer. 

7* 


78  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  My  wife !" 

The  terrible  truth  flashed  on  him.  She  was 
still  alive ;  she  had  seen  and  known  him  at  the 
villa. 

Then,  realizing  his  danger,  his  craven  heart 
sank  within  him.  His  cowardly  nature  lost 
its  courage  with  its  bravado.  He  fell  heavily 
from  the  horse  on  which  they  had  set  him  for 
the  journey  back  to  Eome.  He  was  quickly 
restored  and  remounted,  and  then  the  five 
pinioned  criminals  were  carried  to  the  city  and 
thrown  into  prison.  And  that  same  day  old 
Pietro  and  Violante  were  laid  by  the  altar  in 
San  Lorenzo  church. 

Yet  for  four  days  did  Pompilia  linger  in  the 
Eoman  hospital.  She  was  cruelly  wounded  by 
a  hand  which  hated  deeply  and  thirsted  for  her 
life.  She  had  been  left  for  dead  on  the  villa 
floor  only  after  the  murderers  had  listened  at 
her  still  heart  and  tested  her  breathless  lips, 
Guido  had  held  her  lovely  head  up  by  the  long 
silken  hair  while  his  accomplices  watched  for 
the  signs  of  life.  Then,  when  he  was  convinced 
that  she  was  dead, — she  whom  he  cursed  from 
his  heart  as  the  source  of  all  his  ills, — he  cast 
her  away  from  him,  and  hurried  out  to  gain  the 
protection  of  his  Tuscan  home. 

Unconscious,  she  had  lain  for  a  long  time,  but 
not  dead  •  and  when  the  doctors  came  in  they 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  79 

found  the  life  still  eddying  through  her  muti- 
lated limbs.  She  was  carried  to  the  hospital, 
and  there  told  her  story,  her  whole  life  as  she 
had  known  it,  to  the  good  friar  Don  Celestine. 

"  All  these  things  are  true,"  she  feebly  said. 
*'  You  must  remember  them,  because  time  flies. 
The  surgeon  cared  for  me  and  counted  my 
wounds, — twenty-two  dagger-wounds,  five  of 
them  deadly ;  but  I  do  not  suffer  much.  He 
says  I  cannot  live  beyond  to-night." 

Then  in  a  half-whisper,  while  the  patient  friar 
leaned  down  to  her  pillow,  she  told  him  her 
pitiful  tale.  She  dwelt  much  upon  the  bright 
spots  in  her  dark  life,  on  the  birth  of  her  son 
Gaetano,  on  the  tenderness  and  care  of  Capon- 
sacchi,  and  on  the  love  of  her  old  parents,  whom 
she  had  been  so  happy  to  join  again  after  the 
cruel  life  at  Arezzo.  She  said  little  about  Count 
Guido,  neither  accusing  nor  blaming  him.  Hers 
was  a  wistful  and  pathetic  narrative  of  sim- 
plicity and  innocence  that  had  been  deceived, 
but  she  kept  her  sweet  forbearance  to  the  end, 
and  made  no  accusations  against  those  who  had 
wronged  her.  Yet  when  she  came  to  speak,  at 
the  last,  about  her  child,  she  was  sure,  she  said, 
that  he  could  be  only  his  mother's,  born  solely 
of  love,  not  of  hate. 

"Let  us  leave  God   alone,"  she  murmured. 
"  He  will  explain,  in  good  time,  what  I  only  feel 


80  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

now.  I  cannot  say  the  things  I  would.  It 
seems  impossible  to-day.  But  I  shall  be  righted 
hereafter.  Many  things  are  never  explained, 
but  just  known." 

Then,  as  if  faint  with  her  effort  to  tell  all,  she 
sank  into  quietness.  But  it  was  only  momen- 
tary. Her  struggling  spirit  broke  through  the 
flesh's  weariness,  and  she  whispered  tranquilly, 
but  with  a  new  lustre  in  her  eyes, 

"  There  is  more  yet.  My  last  breath  must  be 
true.  He  is  still  here  in  the  world.  It  is  now, 
when  I  am  like  to  leave,  that  I  feel  most  the 
old  sensations.  Again  the  face  and  eyes,  and 
the  heart  of  my  one  friend,  with  its  immeas- 
urable love !  My  only  friend,  all  my  own,  who 
put  his  breast  between  me  and  the  spears.  No 
work  that  is  begun  will,  I  think,  ever  pause  for 
death.  Love  will  be  more  and  more  helpful  to 
me  in  the  coming  course.  Tell  him  that  if  I 
seem  without  him  now,  that's  the  world's  in- 
sight. Oh,  he  understands !  He  is  at  Civita, — 
the  world  is  holding  us  apart  again.  Tell  him 
it  was  his  name  I  sprang  to  when  the  knock 
came  at  the  door.  It  is  through  such  souls  as 
his  that  God  shows  us  enough  of  his  light  to 
rise  by." 

She  sank  back  upon  her  pillow,  wan  and  still. 
The  fire  had  burnt  out  the  shell  which  held  it. 
They  covered  her  and  paced  sadly  away. 


The  Ring  and  the  Book.  81 

Then  Pompilia  was  carried  to  San  Lorenzo 
church  and  laid  on  the  altar  beside  Pietro  and 
Violante,  who  had  wronged  her  greatly  through 
loving  her  greatly. 

But  with  Count  Guido  Franceschini  it  fared 
otherwise.  He  and  his  four  peasant  accom- 
plices were  taken  before  the  earthly  judges  of 
Eome,  and  were  by  them  condemned  to  pass 
from  the  scaffold  before  a  higher  tribunal. 

On  the  day  appointed  they  were  dragged  in 
open  carts  through  the  crowded  streets  to  the 
Place  of  the  People,  where  a  holiday  throng 
had  gathered  to  see  the  end  of  a  noble  convict. 
There,  as  had  been  decreed,  Guido  suffered  death 
upon  the  block,  and  his  four  knaves  were  hung, 
two  on  each  side  of  him. 

Human  justice  was  at  last  appeased  for  the 
crime  done  at  the  villa  by  the  Pauline  gate. 


I—/ 


THE   PRINCESS. 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON. 


THE   PRINCESS. 


I. 

In  a  land  under  the  Northern  star  there  lived 
once  a  Prince  of  royal  blood,  who  was  very  fair 
of  face,  and  wore  long  yellow  ringlets  in  token 
of  his  birth  in  the  country  of  the  year-long 
snow.  He  was,  though,  of  an  amorous  temper 
and  fond  of  romantic  adventure,  and  if  these 
traits  fitted  ill  with  his  Norland  blue  eyes  and 
flaxen  hair,  they  made  him  none  the  less  noble, 
but  threw  about  him  a  subtler  charm  than  be- 
longed to  his  hardier  kinsfolk. 

Now,  there  was  an  ancient  legend  in  the  house 
of  this  Prince  that  some  sorcerer,  who  was 
burnt  by  a  far-off  ancestor  because  he  cast  no 
shadow,  had  foretold  when  he  died  that  none 
of  all  that  royal  lineage  should  know  shadow 
from  substance,  and  that  at  last  one  should  come 
to  fight  with  shadows  and  should  fall  in  the 
fray. 

Such  was  the  story  the  Prince's  mother  had 
taught  him  at  her  knee ;   and  in  good    truth 

8  85 


86  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

waking  dreams  had  always  been,  more  or  less, 
the  prevailing  affection  of  the  house.  The  Prince 
himself  had,  as  he  grew  up,  weird  seizures.  On 
a  sudden  in  the  daylight  and  in  the  very  midst 
of  his  companions — even  while  he  walked  and 
talked  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do — he  seemed 
to  move  in  a  world  of  ghosts  and  feel  like  the 
mere  shadow  of  a  dream.  The  great  court 
physician  nodded  gravely  over  such  a  symptom 
and  stroked  his  beard  in  meditation,  then  he 
muttered  "  catalepsy"  or  some  such  thing,  and 
did  nothing  at  all  to  cure  the  malady. 

The  Prince's  mother  was  much  troubled  by 
his  seizures  and  said  a  thousand  prayers  for  his 
recovery,  for  she  was  as  mild  as  a  saint  and 
half  canonized  by  her  subjects,  so  gracious  and 
tender  was  she  in  all  things.  But  the  King,  his 
father,  thought  a  king  should  be  all  a  king.  He 
cared  little  for  the  love  of  his  royal  household, 
but  held  his  sceptre  like  a  school-master's  rod, 
the  scourge  of  offenders,  whom  with  his  long 
hands  reached  forth  he  picked  out  from  the 
mass  of  his  people  for  austere  judgment. 

It  chanced,  while  the  Prince  was  still  but  a 
tender  youth,  that  he  was  betrothed  to  a  neigh- 
boring Princess ;  and  she  was  proxy-wedded  to 
him  with  a  calf,  as  the  custom  in  that  land  was, 
at  eight  years  old.  From  time  to  time  rumors 
of  her  beauty  came  to  the  Northern  court  from 


The  Princess.  ^    87 

the  South,  where  she  dwelt,  and  also  came  gossip 
about  her  well-knit  and  comely  brothers,  who 
were  youths  of  prowess  in  the  field  of  sport 
and  fight.  The  Prince  still  wore  her  picture 
hanging  at  his  heart,  and  beSide  it  a  single  dark 
tress  of  her  hair,  and  all  about  these  tokens  his 
thoughts  would  constantly  hover,  like  a  swarm 
of  bees  about  its  queen. 

But  the  time  drew  near  when  the  real  wed- 
ding should  take  place  between  the  Prince  and 
his  betrothed  bride;  and  his  father  the  King 
sent  ambassadors,  bearing  gifts  of  furs  and 
jewels,  to  bring  her  back.  They  went  their 
way,  and  returned  at  the  allotted  time  carrying 
a  wondrous  piece  of  tapestry  with  them  as  an 
offering  to  the  King,  but  not  the  Princess.  The 
answer  from  the  South  was  as  vague  as  the 
wind.  They  saw  the  King,  her  father;  he  took 
the  gifts,  he  acknowledged  there  was  a  compact 
of  marriage,  all  that  was  true ;  but  then  she 
had  a  will  of  her  own, — was  he  to  blame  for 
that? — and  also  maiden  fancies  of  an  unusual 
kind, — liked  to  live  alone  among  her  women ; 
and,  in  short,  he  was  certain  she  would  not  wed. 

The  Prince  stood  by  the  throne  in  the  presence- 
room  as  this  message  was  delivered,  and  with  him 
were  his  two  friends,  Cyril,  a  gentleman  of 
broken  fortunes,  due  to  his  father's  waste,  but 
a  merry  and  revelling  companion,  and  Florian, 


88  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  Prince's  bosom  comrade,  almost  his  half 
self,  for  they  were  never  apart. 

While  the  returned  ambassadors  spoke,  the 
Prince  watched  his  father's  face  and  saw  it 
grow  long  and  trobbled,  then  threatening  and 
wrathful.  The  King  started  to  his  feet  and  tore 
the  letter  from  his  Southern  ally  into  atoms,  and 
these  he  cast  down  angrily,  and  then  rent  through 
with  one  blow  the  beautiful  tapestry,  his  royal 
gift.  At  last  he  swore  that  he  would  send  a  hun- 
dred thousand  men  and  bring  the  Princess  in  a 
whirlwind.  Then  he  turned  to  his  war-captains 
and  appeased  his  wrath  in  martial  talk. 

But  at  last  the  Prince  spoke  up :  "  Let  me  go, 
father.  Perhaps  some  mistake  has  been  made. 
I  cannot  believe  that  such  a  king,  one  whom 
everybody  praises  for  fairness  and  kindness, 
should  send  back  such  an  answer ;  or  maybe  if 
I  saw  the  Princess  I  should  not  care  for  her 
and  should  repent  my  bargain." 

And  Florian  said,  "  I  have  a  sister  there,  too, 
an  attendant  on  the  Princess.  She  married  a 
nobleman  of  that  country,  who  died  lately  and 
left  her  the  lady  of  three  castles.  Through  her 
we  might  do  much  to  mend  matters." 

"  Take  me,  too,"  whispered  Cyril.  "  "What  if 
you  have  a  seizure  there  in  a  strange  land? 
You'll  need  a  trusty  friend,  and  I'll  be  that. 
I'm  rusting  out  here  in  idleness." 


The  Princess.  89 

«  No !"  roared  the  irate  King,  "  you  shall  not ! 
We  ourself  will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies 
in  these  iron  gauntlets !    Break  up  the  council  I" 

And  then  the  company  scattered,  in  some 
dread  of  the  royal  rage ;  but  the  Prince  went 
forth  into  the  woods  that  circled  the  town,  and, 
finding  a  still  place,  pulled  out  the  Princess's 
likeness  and  laid  it  on  the  flowers  beside  his 
bending  elbow.  As  he  gazed  on  the  sweet  face 
of  his  betrothed  he  began  to  wonder  what  were 
her  strange  fancies  and  why  she  wanted  to  break 
her  troth.  The  lips  surely  looked  a  trifle  proud 
and  disdainful ;  but  while  he  meditated  a  wind 
came  up  from  the  south  and  shook  all  the  leaves 
overhead  together,  and  a  voice  seemed  to  come 
from  them  saying,  "  Follow,  follow,  and  thou 
shalt  win." 

Then  before  the  moon  grew  full,  for  it  was 
now  but  a  slender  crescent,  he  stole  from  court 
with  Cyril  and  Florian,  and  crept  through  the 
town,  dreading  each  moment  to  hear  the  hue 
and  cry  of  his  father  hallooing  at  his  back. 
But  all  was  quiet  enough,  and  they  dropped  over 
the  bastioned  walls  like  spiders  and  fled  away, 
and  reached  the  frontier  before  they  were 
missed.  They  crossed  then  to  a  livelier  coun- 
try, and  so,  through  farms  and  vineyards  and 
tracts  of  green  wilderness,  they  gained  the  King's 
city,  where  amid  its  circling  towers  arose  the 

8* 


90  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

imperial  palace,  and  thither  they  went  and 
found  the  King. 

His  name  was  Gama.  He  had  a  small  cracked 
voice  and  but  little  dignity,  but  his  smile  was 
bland  enough  and  drove  his  old  cheeks  into 
wrinklinof  lines.  He  looked  in  truth  not  much 
like  a  king,  but  he  was  royal  in  his  treatment 
of  the  visitors,  and  for  three  whole  days  they 
feasted  in  his  palace.  Then  on  the  fourth  day 
they  told  him,  mellowed  with  wine  and  hearty 
with  good  cheer,  why  they  had  come,  and  of 
the  Prince's  desire  to  see  his  betrothed, 

"You  do  us  great  honor.  Prince,"  he  said. 
"  We  remember  love  ourself  in  far-away  youth. 
Yes,  we  made  a  compact  with  your  father — a 
kind  of  ceremony — I  think" — and  he  placed  one 
musing  finger  on  his  brow — "  I  think  it  was  the 
summer  our  olives  failed.  Hem  !  I  would  you 
had  her.  Prince.  But  there  was  a  pair  of 
widows  here.  Lady  Psyche  and  Lady  Blanche, 
who  fed  her  with  all  sorts  of  theories,  in  place 
and  out,  always  proving  to  their  own  satisfaction 
that  women  are  the  equal  of  men.  They  harped 
on  th&  subject  forever ;  all  our  banquets  rang 
with  it ;  even  the  dancers  broke  up  into  knots  to 
discuss  it.  Nothing  but  this  one  theme  from 
morning  till  night.  My  very  ears  grew  hot  to 
hear  them  at  it !  Heigh-ho !  my  daughter  said 
knowledge  was  the  all  in  all.     As  children  they 


The  Princess.  91 

had  only  existed ;  they  must  now  leave  off 
being  children,  cease  merely  to  exist,  and  be 
women.  Then  she  wrote  awful  odes  and  dismal 
lyrics  and  made  rhymed  prophecies  of  change 
and  all  that.  And  they  sang  these  things,  sirs, 
and  I  went  away  and  sought  quiet,  but  her 
women  called  them  masterpieces.  They  cer- 
tainly mastered  me  I  Well,  at  last  she  came 
and  begged  a  boon  of  me.  Would  I  give  her 
my  summer  palace  up  by  your  father's  frontier  ? 
I  said  no,  of  course,  but  she  wheedled  it  out  of 
me,  and  she  and  her  maidens  went  there  and 
founded  a  University  for  their  sex  alone.  We 
know  no  more  about  it  than  this :  they  see  no 
men, — not  even  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins, 
though  they  look  upon  her  as  a  paragon.  Well, 
I  was  loath  to  breed  trouble,  but  since  you  think 
me  bound  in  some  sort  by  my  compact,  as  no 
doubt  I  am,  why,  if  you  wish  it,  I  can  give  you 
letters  to  her.  But  I  don't  think  your  chance  of 
seeing  her  is  worth  much." 

The  Prince  was  somewhat  nettled  by  such 
cool  disregard  of  a  solemn  compact,  but  he 
was  chafing  now  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  bride, 
and  he  took  the  letters  and  rode  forth  with 
his  friends  to  the  northward. 

At  last,  after  a  long  day's  ride,  they  looked  off 
from  a  sloping  hill-side  and  saw  a  rustic  town, 
which  they  presently  entered  at  evening,  and 


92  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

found  it  a  fair  place  set  in  the  crescent  of  a 
winding  river.  There  they  found  an  old  hostel, 
and  called  the  landlord  into  council  upon  their 
adventure.  They  plied  him  with  his  own  rich- 
est wines,  and  showed  him  the  King's  letters, 
which  he  touched  with  reverence. 

The  landlord  declared  it  was  against  all  rules 
for  any  man  to  go  to  the  University,  but  under 
the  seductive  touch  of  the  wine  and  out  of  re- 
spect for  the  royal  sign-manual  he  relented  at 
last. 

"  Well,  if  the  King  has  given  the  letters,"  he 
said,  "  I  am  not  bound  to  speak.  The  King's  a  law 
unto  himself,  and  he'll  bear  me  out  if  I  obey  his 
behests.  But,"  he  added,  with  a  sly  wink, — "  but 
no  doubt  you  would  make  it  worth  my  while  ? 
She  passed  this  way  once,"  he  chattered  on,  "  and 
I  heard  her  speak.  How  she  scared  me !  Oh, 
I  never  saw  the  like!  She  looked  as  grand 
and  as  grave  as  doomsday.  But  I  reverence  her 
too, — she's  my  liege-lady,  your  honors;  and  I 
always  make  a  point  to  use  mares  for  the  post- 
ing, and  my  daughter  and  the  housemaids  I 
make  do  for  boys.  Why,  the  land  all  about  is 
tilled  by  women, — and  the  swine  are  all  sows, 
too ;  and  all  the  dogs " 

But  while  the  portly  host  jested  and  laughed 
in  this  wise,  a  thought  struck  the  Prince,  which 
he  acted  on  instantly.     Bemembering  how  he 


The  Princess.  93 

and  Florian  and  Cyril  had  once  taken  the  parts 
of  nymphs  and  goddesses  in  a  masque  at  his 
father's  court,  he  now  sent  the  landlord  out  to 
buy  female  apparel  for  all  three,  and  very  soon 
mine  host  returned  laden  with  gowns  and  furbe- 
lows and  himself  shaken  with  an  ill-suppressed 
mirth.  He  helped  to  lace  the  trio  up  in  the 
maidenly  garb,  and  they  gave  him  a  costly  bribe 
to  keep  silence ;  then  they  mounted  their  steeds 
and  ventured  boldly  into  the  domain  of  the 
Princess. 

They  followed  the  winding  course  of  the  river 
as  they  had  been  directed  to  do,  and  at  midnight 
began  to  see  the  far-off  college-lights  glittering 
like  fire-flies  in  a  copse.  Then  they  passed  an 
arch,  above  which  rose  a  statue  of  a  woman 
with  wings,  riding  four  winged  horses,  and  they 
could  make  out  in  the  deep  shadow  that  some 
inscription  ran  along  the  front,  but  could  not 
read  it.  Farther  on  they  came  into  a  little 
street  of  gardens  and  houses,  where  the  noise  of 
clocks  and  chimes  was  deafening,  so  many  were 
there  in  the  place.  Fountains,  too,  spouted  up 
here  and  there  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  song 
of  nightingales  filled  up  all  the  intervals  of 
sound. 

Before  them  now  rose  a  bust  of  Pallas,  be- 
tween two  lamps  blazoned  like  Heaven  and 
Earth  and  resting  above  an  open  entry,    Eiding 


94  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

in  thither,  they  called  for  attendance,  and  a 
lusty  hostleress,  followed  by  a  stable-wench, 
came  running  out  and  helped  them  down.  Then 
a  buxom  hostess  stepped  forth,  and  led  them 
into  their  rooms,  which  looked  out  on  a  pillared 
porch  deeply  based  in  laurel-leaves. 

They  questioned  her  about  the  college,  and 
asked  who  were  tutors. 

"  Lady  Blanche  and  Lady  Pysche,"  she  said. 

The  three  candidates  cried  in  one  voice,  "  We 
are  hers !" 

Then  the  Prince  sat  down  and  wrote  in  a 
slanted  hand  like  a  woman, — 

"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire  pray 
Your  Highness  to  enroll  them  in  your  college  as 
the  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

He  sealed  and  gave  this  letter  to  the  land- 
lady, to  be  sent  at  dawn,  and  then  the  three 
companions  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  the 
adventures  to  be. 

II. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  College  Portress 
came  to  the  place  where  the  Prince  and  his 
friends  were  resting,  and  brought  them  Aca- 
demic silks  of  lilac  color,  with  silken  hoods  and 
girdles  of  gold.  They  put  these  an  without 
parley,  and  then  the  Portress,  courtesying  her 
obeisance,  told    them  that   the   Princess   Ida 


The  Princess.  95 

waited.  They  followed  her  through  a  laurel- 
grown  porch,  and  came  forth  into  a  marble  court 
supported  with  classic  friezes  and  covered  with 
ample  awnings  hung  up  between  the  pillars.  A 
fountain  played  in  the  midst,  circled  by  the 
Muses  and  Graces  in  groups  of  three,  and  here 
and  there  scattered  about  on  the  lattice  edges 
lay  a  book  or  lute.  They  passed  on,  and  as- 
cended a  flight  of  stairs  into  a  great  hall. 

There,  with  two  tame  leopards  couched  near 
her  throne,  sat  the  Princess  at  a  table  filled  with 
volumes  and  loose  papers.  In  the  Prince's  eyes 
she  seemed  the  sum  of  all  beauty,  as  fair  indeed 
as  an  inhabitant  of  some  planet  nearer  to  the 
sun  than  ours.  Such  eyes,  so  much  grace  and 
power  looking  down  from  her  arched  brows,  he 
had  never  beheld  until  now,  and  with  every 
turn  she  made  her  perfection  lived  through  her 
to  the  tips  of  her  long  hands  and  to  her  very 
feet. 

She  rose  to  her  full  height,  and  said,  "We 
give  you  welcome.  Not  without  some  glory 
to  ourselves  have  you  come  to  us,  the  first- 
fruits  of  stranger  lands.  Hereafter  in  the  voice 
which  circles  around  the  grave  you  will  rank 
nobly,  mingled  in  fame  with  me."  Then,  no- 
ticing them  more  closely,  she  exclaimed, — 

"  But  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  all  so  tall  ?" 

"  We  of  the  court,"  said  Cyril. 


96  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  From  the  court,"  she  answered.  "  Then  you 
know  the  Prince?" 

"The  climax  of  his  age!  Indeed  yes,  your 
Highness ;  and  as  though  there  were  but  one 
rose  in  the  whole  world,  so  he  worships  you." 

"  We  scarcely  expected  to  hear  such  barren 
speech  in  our  own  hall,"  she  said.  "  This  light 
kind  of  coin  is  current  among  men,  but  not  with 
us.  Your  escape  from  the  bookless  desert  would 
seem  to  argue  love  of  knowledge,  but  your 
language  proves  you  still  a  child.  Indeed,  we 
dream  not  of  the  Prince.  When  we  set  our  hand 
to  this  great  work  we  purposed  never  to  wed. 
You  likewise,  ladies,  will  do  well,  in  entering 
here,  to  cast  away  such  tricks  as  make  you  the 
toys  of  men." 

After  this  harangue  the  Prince  and  his 
fellow-candidates  seemed  much  abashed  and 
looked  steadily  down  at  the  matting.  Then 
an  officer  arose  and  read  the  statutes  of  the 
foundation,  which  declared  that  for  three  years 
no  undergraduate  could  correspond  with  home, 
or  cross  the  boundary,  or  speak  with  a  man. 
These  and  a  score  of  others  the  new  scholars 
hastily  subscribed  to,  and  they  were  then  re- 
ceived without  further  ceremony  into  the  college. 

"Now,"  said  the  Princess,  admonishingly, 
*'  you  are  one  with  us.  But  you  are  still  green 
wood.     Sec  to  it  that  you  do  not  warp." 


The  Princess.  97 

Then  she  led  them  with  majestic  movements 
into  the  hall  beyond,  and  showed  them  one  by 
one  the  statues  of  ancient  queens  and  noble 
women  of  old  which  stood  there.  She  turned 
as  they  passed  out  through  the  door  and  spoke 
words  of  counsel  to  them,  exhorting  them  to 
live  worthy  lives  and  to  work  out  their  freedom 
from  masculine  thraldom.  At  last  she  dismissed 
them  and  bade  them  go  to  the  Lady  Psyche's 
class-room,  where  all  those  newly  arrived  were 
gathered  for  their  first  lecture. 

Back  they  went  across  the  sylvan  court-yard 
and  found  the  room,  and  took  their  seats  with 
the  throng  of  pupils  already  clustered  at  the 
long  forms.  The  teacher  herself  sat  erect  be- 
hind an  elevated  desk.  She  was  a  sharp-eyed 
brunette,  alert  and  well  moulded,  and  perhap* 
on  the  hither  side  of  twenty  years.  At  her  left 
slept  her  infant,  Aglaia,  wrapped  in  embroidered 
draperies.  She  glanced  keenly  at  the  Prince 
and  his  companions  as  they  entered,  and  not 
a  gesture  or  movement  of  theirs  escaped  her. 
After  a  searching  look  at  her  face,  Florian  whis- 
pered,— 

"  By  Heaven,  my  sister !" 

"  Comely,  too,  by  all  that's  fair,"  said  Cyril. 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush !"  urged  the  Prince,  and  she 
began  to  speak, 

"  This  universe  was  at  one  time  nothing  but 
I.— E       g  9 


98  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

liquid  flame.  Then  the  star  tides  set  in  towards 
the  centre  of  chaos  and  formed  suns.  These 
cast  oif  the  planets.  Then  came  monsters,  and 
at  last  man."  Here  she  proceeded  to  take  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole  earth's  past  history, 
and,  at  last,  drifted  from  this  into  a  prophecy 
of  the  future,  when,  everywhere,  there  would 
be  two  heads  in  council,  two  by  the  hearth, 
two  in  commerce,  two  in  science  and  art  and 
poetry. 

Thus  after  a  long  harangue  she  ended,  and 
the  class  began  to  depart,  but  she  beckoned  to 
the  Prince  and  his  friends  to  come  near  to 
her  desk.  They  moved  forward  as  she  di- 
rected, and  she  addressed  some  words  to  them 
in  praise  of  the  worthy  course  they  had  chosen. 
•  But  her  voice  faltered,  after  a  little  speech, 
and  she  seemed  no  longer  able  to  play  her  part. 
She  fairly  broke  down  at  last,  and  cried, — 

"  My  brother !" 

"  Well,  my  sister  ?"  demurely  said  Florian. 

"  Oh,  what  do   you  mean  by  coming  here  ? 

And  in  this  dress?     And  who  are  these 

Wolves  in  the  fold!  The  Lord  be  gracious  to 
me !  a  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot !     It  will  ruin  all !" 

"  No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answered. 

"  Wretched  boy !  did  you  not  see  the  inscrip- 
tion above  the  gate, — Let  no  man  enter  in  on 

PAIN  OF  DEATH  ?" 


The  Princess.  99 

"  And  if  I  had,"  said  Florian,  "  I  would  not 
have  believed  you  as  savage  as  you  seem." 

"  But  you  will  find  it  true,"  she  said.  "  You 
may  jest  if  you  choose ;  but  it's  ill  jesting  with 
edge-tools." 

"Yery  well,  then,  kill  me,  and  nail  me  to 
the  door  like  a  weasel  for  a  warning !    Bury  me 
by  the  gate,  and  write  above  me, — 
'  Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 
All  for  the  common  good  of  wotnankind.'  " 

"Let  me  be  slain,  too,"  said  Cyril.  "I  have 
seen  the  Lady  Psyche  and  am  content  to  die." 

Then  said  the  Prince,  motioning  the  others 
to  silence, — 

"Notwithstanding  my  disguise,  madam,  I 
love  the  truth.  Hear  it,  then,  and  in  me  behold 
your  countryman,  the  Prince,  affianced  years 
ago  to  the  Lady  Ida.  Because  she  is  here,  and 
because  there  was  no  other  way  to  come  hither, 
I  have  ventured  to  come  thus." 

"  Oh,  sir,  my  Prince !"  said  the  Lady  Psyche, 
"  I  have  no  country  any  more,  or  if  I  have,  it  is 
only  this.  But,  truly,  I  have  none,  none  at  all ! 
Affianced,  sir,  you  say?  Nothing  that  speaks 
of  love  must  be  breathed  within  this  vestal  limit. 
And  how  should  I,  who  am  sworn  to  obey  in  all 
things,  bid  you  stay  here  and  live  ?  The  thun- 
derbolt hangs  silent;  but,  believe  me,  it  will 
fall  anon." 


100  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Hold !"  cried  the  Prince,  as  she  moved  away. 
"  What  if  the  inscription  speaks  truly,  and 
we  are  put  to  death, — what  follows  ?  War,  and 
all  your  precious  work  marred ;  and  your  Acad- 
emy, whichever  side  conquers,  destroyed !" 

"Let  the  Princess  judge  of  that,"  she  said. 
«'  And  now  farewell,  sir."  And  to  Florian  and 
C}Til  she  made  a  pitiful  adieu,  and  then,  "1 
shudder  for  your  fate,  but  I  am  bound  in  duty 
to  go." 

Before  she  had  quite  passed  from  them  the 
Prince  spoke,  and  she  turned  to  listen. 

"  Are  you,"  he  said,  "  that  Lady  Psyche,  the 
fifth  in  line  from  old  Florian,  whose  portrait 
hangs  in  our  palace  showing  him  astride  ray 
fallen  grandsire  as  he  defended  him  when  all 
else  had  fled  ?  We  point  to  it  even  to  this  day 
and  say,  the  loyalty  of  Florian  has  not  grown 
cold,  but  runs  warm  among  us  in  kindred 
veins." 

"  Are  you  that  Psyche  with  whom  I  romped 
in  childhood?"  pleaded  Florian.  "Are  you  the 
same  that  bound  my  brow  and  smoothed  my 
pillow  in  sickness  and  told  me  pleasant  tales  and 
read  the  pain  away  into  happy  dreams  ?  Are 
you  the  brother  and  sister  in  one  whom  I  loved 
of  old  ?  You  were,  perhaps,  but  what  are  you 
now  ?" 

"You  are  that  Psyche,"  followed  CyxW,  "  for 


The  Princess.  101 

•whom  I  would  forever  be  what  I  seem, — a 
woman,  so  that  I  mi^ht  pit  at  your  feet  and 
glean  wisdom."  ':!''• 

Then  again  quqM  m  turn  pleaded  with  her,  ap- 
pealed to  her  heart,  and  'oo  her^love"  of  tha  land 
which  bore  her,  and  to  her  affection  for  her  babe ; 
80  that  at  last,  moved  and  vexed,  she  cried, — 

"  Out  upon  it !  peace !  And  why,  then,  should 
I  not  play  the  Spartan  mother  ?  why  should  I 
not  be  the  Brutus  of  my  sex  ?  You  call  him 
great  because  he  made  sacrifice  of  self  to  the 
common  good.  What  of  me  ?  Shall  I,  on  whom 
the  emancipation  of  half  the  world  rests, — shall 
I  do  less  ?  Shall  I  hesitate  to  give  up  a  Prince, 
and  a  brother?"  But  she  softened  visibly  at 
the  thought,  and  went  on  more  calmly :  "  Yet 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  yielded  some- 
thing, and  I  will  on  one  condition  :  you  must 
promise — otherwise  you  perish — to  slip  away 
to-day,  or  at  most  to-morrow,  and  I  will  tell  the 
Head  that  you  were  too  barbarous, — could  not 
be  taught;  you  might  have  brought  shame 
upon  us,  and  we  are  lucky  to  be  rid  of  you. 
Promise,  and  all  shall  be  well." 

There  was  no  alternative,  so  the  three  in- 
truders promised  what  she  asked,  and  she,  like 
a  wild  creature  newly  caged,  paced  to  and 
fro  about  the  room,  struggling  with  her  emo- 
tions.    At  last  she  paused  by  Florian  and  held 

9* 


102  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

out  her  hands ;  taking  both  of  his  in  a  fervent 
grasp.  Smiling  faintlj,  %he  said,  "  I  knew  you, 
dear  FloT'ian',  fromvtho  ur*t,'— the  very  first.  You 
have  grown,  but  you  have  not  altered,  no,  not 
the  least.'  I. am  very- glad,"  yet  very  sad,  to  see 
you,  my  brother.  Pardon  my  threats  and  harsh- 
ness ;  it  was  duty  that  spoke,  not  I.  And  our 
mother,  tell  me,  is  she  well  ?" 

With  that  she  reached  up  and  kissed  his  fore- 
head, and  then  clung  about  him  with  sisterly 
affection,  and  between  them,  from  old  veins  of 
memory,  began  to  flow  sweet  household  talk 
and  pensive  allusions  to  the  past,  which  moist- 
ened the  tender  Psyche's  eyes. 

But  while  they  stood  thus  in  happy  forget- 
fulness,  there  came  a  voice  at  the  door  : 

"  Here  is  a  message  from  the  Lady  Blanche." 

Psyche  started  and  looked  up.  It  was  the 
Lady  Blanche's  daughter  Melissa,  who  stood 
waiting  in  timid  consciousness  of  her  intrusion. 
She  was  a  rosy  blonde,  dressed  in  a  college  gown 
of  yellow  silk,  and  she  looked  like  a  slender  daffa- 
dilly  as  she  gazed  with  timid  eyes  into  the  room. 

"You,  Melissa?"  exclaimed  Psyche.  "You 
heard  us,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  pardon,"  faltered  Melissa.  "  I  did  hear ; 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  did  not  wish  to.  But, 
dearest  lady,  pray  do  not  fear  me.  I  will  do 
nothing  to  harm  these  gallant  gentlemen." 


The  Princess.  103 

"  I  trust  you,  Melissa,"  said  Psyche,  "  for  we 
were  always  friends.  But  your  mother,  child ! 
— what  if  she  heard  ?  Do  not  let  your  prudence 
sleep  a  wink.     It  would  ruin  all !" 

"  You  need  not  fear  me,"  said  Melissa.  "  I 
would  not  tell,  not  even  for  power  to  answer  all 
that  Sheba  asked  of  Solomon." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Psyche ;  and  then  turning  to 
the  conspirators,  "  Go,  now,"  she  said ;  "  we  have 
already  been  too  long  together.  Draw  your 
hoods  close  about  your  faces.  Speak  little.  Do 
not  mix  with  the  rest,  and  keep  your  promise." 

They  started  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  up  Psyche's 
child  and  blew  out  his  cheeks  like  a  trumpeter 
to  amuse  it.  The  lady  smiled,  and  the  baby 
pushed  forth  her  fat  hand  against  his  face  and 
laughed,  and  when  he  set  her  down  they  went 
out. 

Half  the  long  day  "they  wandered  about  the 
stately  theatres  of  the  college.  They  sat  in 
each  one  in  turn,  and  heard  the  grave  professors 
discourse  on  all  things  human  and  superhuman, 
until  they  were  quite  gorged  with  knowledge, 
and  the  Prince  said, — 

"  Why,  after  all,  they  do  this  as  well  as  we 
do." 

"  They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril,  "  but  never 
advance ;  women  never  can." 

"  Ungracious !"  exclaimed  Florian,  "  did  you 


104  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

learn  no  more  than  that  from  Psyche?  You 
told  her  a  heap  of  trash,  at  any  rate.  It  quite 
made  me  sick." 

"Oh,  trash!  Well,  but  there  was  a  reason. 
She  made  me  wise  in  one  way,  truly.  A  thou- 
sand hearts  lie  fallow  here  and  a  thousand  baby 
Loves  go  flitting  about  with  headless  arrows. 
Well,  the  bigger  boy,  Cupid  himself,  has  struck 
me ;  and,  after  all,  do  I  chase  shadow  or  sub- 
stance ?  There's  no  sorcerer's  malison  upon  me, 
as  there  is  upon  His  Highness  here.  I  know  a 
shadow  when  I  see  it.  Are  castles  shadows, 
think  you  ?  Is  she  herself  a  shadow  in  all  her 
loveliness  ?  Why,  then,  should  those  three  cas- 
tles not  help  to  patch  my  tattered  coat  ?  But 
hark,  there's  the  bell  for  dinner !"  And  the  ad- 
venturers went  into  the  great  hall  and  found 
places  at  the  table  among  the  long  rows  of  fair 
students,  who  chattered  in  deepest  terms  of 
science  and  philosophy  throughout  the  long 
meal. 

When  the  solemn  grace  was  over  the  Prince 
and  his  friends  went  forth  into  the  gardens,  but 
sat  apart  in  muffled  silence,  save  that  Melissa 
came  now  and  again  to  rally  them,  while  the 
rest  played  at  ball,  or  gossiped  by  the  fountain's 
edge,  or  opened  books  and  paced  to  and  fro 
upon  the  smooth  sod. 

At  last  the  chapel-bell  called  to  evening  ser- 


The  Princess.  105 

vice,  and  the  Prince  and  his  fellows  mixed  with 
the  six  hundred  maidens,  clad  all  in  purest  white, 
and  passed  in  where  the  great  organ  played  sol- 
emn hymns,  the  work  of  the  Lady  Ida  in  verse 
and  melody,  made  to  call  down  a  blessing  on  her 

labors. 

III. 

When  the  morning  came  the  three  trespassers 
carefully  dressed  one  another  and  descended  to 
the  courts,  which  lay  shadowed  and  dewy  below 
their  windows.  They  were  idly  standing  beside 
the  fountain,  watching  the  bubbles  dance  and 
break,  when  Melissa  approached  them,  pale  with 
tears  and  loss  of  sleep. 

"  Fly,  fly,"  she  whispered,  "  while  there's  still 
time  !     My  mother  knows  all." 

"What?"  said  the  Prince,  startled  by  the 
news. 

"  It  was  my  fault.  Oh,  don't  blame  me !  I 
could  not  help  it.  She  divined  it,  drew  it  from 
me.  It  is  all  because  of  her  jealousy  of  the 
Lady  Psyche.  She  said  you  looked  more  like 
men  than  like  women,  and  laughed  at  Lady 
Psyche's  countrywomen.     And  I " 

"  You  blushed,"  said  Cyril. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  blushed,  and  then  she  knew, 
and  said,  '  Why — these — are — men — and  you 
know  it !  And  she  knows,  too,  and  conceals  it.' 
And  now  she  has  gone  to  the  Princess,  and  Lady 


106  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Psyche  will  be  crushed.  But  there  is  still  hope 
for  you  if  you  fly  at  once.  Oh,  pardon  me,  say 
you  pardon  me,  before  you  go !" 

"  But  who  asks  pardon  for  a  blush,  my  sweet 
Melissa?"  said  Cyril.  "Go  to,  I'll  straighten 
all  out,  never  fear.  I  must  see  this  Lady 
Blanche  and  soften  her  humor."  And  he  went 
away  to  find  Melissa's  mother. 

Then  Florian  asked  the  fair  girl  whence  the 
feud  between  the  right  and  left,  her  mother's 
and  his  sister's  halves  of  the  college,  had  grown, 
and  she  told  him  how  the  Lady  Psyche  had 
come  from  the  North  and  won  from  Lady 
Blanche  the  heart  of  the  Princess,  and  how  the 
Lady  Psyche  and  the  Lady  Ida  were  boon 
friends,  and  for  this  her  mother  called  the 
Lady  Psyche  plagiarist,  and  hated  her.  When 
she  had  said  all  this,  Melissa  darted  away,  and 
Florian  murmured  to  the  Prince  as  he  gazed 
after  her, — 

"  Surely,  an  open-hearted  girl.  I  think  if  I 
could  ever  come  to  love,  I'd  choose  her  rather 
than  your  stately  Princess,  crammed  with  pride 
and  musty  learning." 

"  Well,  let  the  crane  chatter  about  the  crane 
and  the  dove  about  the  dove,"  said  the  Prince. 
"  Every  man  to  his  liking.  For  me,  the  Princess ! 
If  she  errs,  why,  she  does  it  nobly,  that  you 
must  allow." 


The  Princess.  107 

So  disputing,  they  paced  across  the  court,  and 
reached  the  terrace  which  ran  along  its  northern 
front.  There  they  leaned  upon  the  balusters, 
gazing  out  upon  the  wide  and  fair  landscape 
below  them.  Thither  came  Cyril,  in  a  little 
while,  yawning. 

"  Oh,  what  a  task !"  he  cried.  "  No  fighting 
shadows, — a  real  Amazon !" 

"And  what  success?"  asked  the  Prince. 

"  She  was  hard  as  flint,"  replied  Cyril,  "  with 
a  malignant  light  in  her  green  eyes.  I  was 
courteous  and  conciliatory,  but  to  no  purpose. 
"Who  were  we  ?  she  asked.  I  made  no  conceal- 
ment,— told  her  all,  and  dwelt  upon  your  be- 
trothal to  the  Princess.  But  she  answered  that 
I  talked  astray ;  it  was  untrue.  I  appealed  to  her 
mercy,  to  her  love  for  Melissa,  who  might  come 
to  harm  for  concealing  her  knowledge  of  us ; 
but  she  still  repulsed  me.  At  last  I  plied  her 
with  an  offer  which  tempted :  '  Would  she  ac- 
cept in  our  kingdom  the  headship  of  another 
college,  where  she  should  reign  supreme,  not  fall 
to  third  place,  as  here  ?'  This  moved  her.  She 
is  to  give  us  her  answer  to-day,  and  meantime 
will  not  betray  us." 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  a  messenger 
from  the  Head,  who  announced  that  the  Princess 
intended  to  ride  forth  that  afternoon  in  order 
to  take  the  dip  of  certain  northern  strata,  and 


108  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

invited  them  to  go  with  her.  They  would  find 
the  land  worth  seeing,  said  the  maiden,  and 
she  pointed  to  the  hills  beyond,  rising  at  the 
edges  of  the  vale,  where,  she  told  them,  was  a 
water-fall. 

When  the  hour  had  arrived,  the  Prince  and 
his  friends  went  to  the  porch  where  the  Lady 
Ida  stood  among  her  pupils,  higher  by  a  head 
than  any  of  them.  She  leaned  against  a  pillar, 
and  supported  her  foot  upon  the  back  of  one 
of  her  tame  leopards.  The  lithe  animal  rolled 
over  kitten-like  and  pawed  at  her  sandal,  but 
she  did  not  notice  it. 

The  Prince  drew  near  and  gazed  raptly  at 
her.  Then,  on  a  sudden,  his  strange  seizure 
came  upon  him,  and  the  Princess  and  all  her 
maidens  seemed  a  hollow  show  and  he  himself 
the  very  shadow  of  a  dream.  But  yet  his  heart 
beat  fast  with  passion,  and  as  she  glanced,  once, 
at  him,  he  sighed  in  spite  of  himself  and  felt  a 
longing  to  kneel  at  her  feet. 

But  at  last  the  gay  company  of  girls  all  got  to 
horse  and  rode  forth  in  a  long  retinue,  following 
the  winding  course  of  the  river  as  it  narrowed 
between  the  hills. 

The  Prince  rode  beside  the  Lady  Ida. 

"  We  trust  you  thought  us  not  overharsh  with 
your  companion  yesterday,"  she  said  to  him. 
"  We  were  loath  to  speak  so." 


The  Princess.  109 

"  No,  not  to  her,"  he  answered,  "  but  to  him  of 
whom  you  spoke." 

"  Again  ?"  she  cried.  "  Are  you  envoys  from 
him  to  me  ?  But,  as  you  are  a  stranger,  we  will 
give  you  license.  Speak  this  once,  and  then  no 
more  of  the  subject." 

The  disguised  Prince  stammered  that  he  knew 
him, — that  the  King  expected  her  to  wed  his 
son ;  and  then  he  burst  out,  "  Indeed,  you 
seem  all  the  Prince  prefigured  but  could  not 
see.  Surely  if  you  keep  your  purpose  he  will 
be  driven  to  despair, — even  to  death." 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "  can  he  not  read,  or 
forget  his  worship  in  ball  or  quoits  ?  Does  he 
take  no  delight  in  martial  exercise  ?  Why,  he's 
no  better  than  a  silly  girl  to  nurse  his  blind 
ideal  till  it  enslaves  him  so."  Then  she  paused, 
and  added,  haughtily,  "  As  to  precontracts,  we 
move  at  no  man's  nod.  Like  noble  Vashti,  we 
keep  our  state  and  leave  the  brawling  King  at 
Shushan." 

But  the  Prince  said,  "  You  grant  me  license 
to  speak.  May  I  use  it  freely  ?  Think  of  the 
future.  You  leave  your  work  hereafter  to  feebler 
hands  that  overthrow  all  you  have  reared.  May 
you  not  miss  in  this  wise  what  every  woman 
counts  her  due, — love,  children,  happiness?" 

"  Peace,  you  young  savage !"  she  exclaimed, 
astonished  at  the  girl's  hardihood.    "  You  are 

10 


110  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

overbold ;  "we  are  not  accustomed  to  be  talked 
to  thus  by  our  own  pupils.  Yet  as  for  children," 
she  added  in  a  softer  voice,  "  we  like  them  well ; 
would  they  grew  everywhere  like  wild-flowers ! 
But  children  die  ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  girl,  bab- 
ble as  you  please,  great  deeds  cannot  die." 

The  Prince  made  no  answer.  He  was  over- 
awed by  her  fierce  outburst,  and  wondered 
within  himself  if  she  might  ever  be  won. 

She  seemed  to  interpret  his  thoughts,  and 
spoke  again : 

"  \Ye  no  doubt  appear  a  kind  of  monster  in 
your  eyes  ;  but  we  are  used  to  that,  for  women 
have  been  so  long  cramped  under  a  worse  than 
South-Sea  taboo  that  they  cannot  guess  how 
much  their  welfare  has  become  a  passion  with 
us." 

She  bowed  then,  as  if  to  veil  a  tear  that 
came  in  spite  of  herself  The  Prince  looked  far 
ahead  the  while,  and  saw  that  they  had  arrived 
where  the  river  sloped  to  the  cataract  of  which 
the  messenger  had  spoken.  The  trees  were 
above  them,  and  below  the  plunging  waters, 
which  foamed  over  a  mass  of  great  boulders 
with  an  unceasing  roar.  There,  too,  beside  the 
water,  stuck  out  the  bones  of  some  vast  monster 
that  had  lived  before  the  advent  of  man.  The 
Princess  gazed  at  the  skeleton  awhile,  then 
said, — 


The  Princess.  Ill 

"  As  those  rude  bones  are  to  us,  so  are  wc  to 
the  woman  that  is  to  be." 

"  Dare  we  dream  of  the  power  that  wrought 
us  as  of  the  workman  who  betters  with  prac- 
tice ?"  said  the  Prince. 

"  How !"  she  cried,  "  you  love  metaphysics  ? 
Read,  then,  and  win  the  prize !"  And  she  warmed 
to  the  subject,  and  told  him  all  her  plans,  and 
described  to  him  the  device  carven  on  the  brooch 
which  he  would  gain  by  winning.  They  talked 
on  from  point  to  point  of  the  college  curricu- 
lum. The  Prince  rejoiced  to  be  in  converse  with 
his  betrothed,  be  the  topic  what  it  might,  and 
she  was  full  of  burning  enthusiasm  and  all  heed- 
less of  his  growing  passion. 

As  they  talked  they  rode  onward  and  crossed 
a  wooden  bridge  to  a  flowered  meadow  beneath 
a  crag. 

"  Oh,  how  sweet,"  he  said,  half  oblivious,  now, 
of  the  part  he  was  playing,  "  to  linger  here  with 
one  who  loved  us !" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "or  with  fair  philoso- 
phers to  elevate  our  fancies  ;  for  this,  indeed,  is 
a  lovely  place."  Then  turning  to  her  maids,  she 
called, — 

"  Pitch  our  pavilion  here  on  the  greensward 
and  lay  out  the  viands." 

They  raised  a  satin  tent  at  her  command, 
while  she  and  the  Prince  set  out  to  climb  upon 


112  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  rocks.  Behind  them  went  Cyril  with  the 
Lady  Psyche  and  Florian  with  Melissa,  and  they 
wound  in  and  out  the  pathways  of  the  cliff, 
chattering  geologic  names  and  hammering  away 
pieces  of  stone,  until  the  shadows  slanted  and 
the  heights  shone  out  in  rosy  tints  above  them. 

When  the  sun  had  set  they  came  down  from 
the  cliff,  towards  the  plain  below,  where  the  tent, 
lit  from  within,  shone  no  bigger  than  a  glow- 
worm. Once,  in  the  descent,  the  Lady  Ida  had 
leaned  on  the  Prince,  and  once  or  twice  he  held 
her  hand,  and  his  heart  beat  with  kindling  pul- 
sations at  the  contact.  But  when  they  had 
reached  the  level  and  entered  beneath  the  satin 
roof,  they  sank  upon  the  embroidered  couches 
in  grateful  ease.  On  a  tripod  in  the  midst  rose 
a  fragrant  flame,  and  spread  before  them  were 
fruits  and  viands  and  golden  wines. 

The  Princess  asked  for  some  music,  and  one 
of  those  beside  her  took  the  harp  and  sang. 
When  the  girl  had  ended,  the  Princess  looked 
towards  the  Prince,  and  said, — 

"Do  you  not  know  some  song  of  your  own 
land  to  sing  us  ?" 

The  Prince  also  sang,  but  a  song  he  had 
made  himself,  part  long  ago  and  part  while  he 
sang.  It  was  warm  with  a  Northern  lover's 
wooing  of  a  Southern  maid,  and  when  he  had 
done,  all  the  ladies  stared  with  wide-open  eyes, 


The  Princess.  113 

and  laughed  stealthily,  wondering  what  to  make 
of  it,  for  his  voice  rang  false  and  faltered  now 
and  then  from  the  maiden-like  treble  he  had 
assumed  to  his  native  bass. 

The  Princess  smiled  at  the  girl's  uncouth  mel- 
ody, and  chided  her  for  singing  a  mere  love- 
poem.     Then  she  said, — 

"  But  now  to  mingle  pastime  with  profit,  do 
you  not  know  some  song  that  gives  the  manners 
of  your  own  countrywomen  ?" 

And  while  the  Prince  was  striving  to  remem- 
ber some  such  ditty,  Cyril,  reckless  with  wine 
or  in  sheer  bravado,  struck  up  a  tavern  catch 
of  flippant  words  about  Moll  and  Meg.  Flo- 
rian  looked  imploringly  at  him.  The  Prince 
frowned,  Psyche  flushed  and  trembled,  and  the 
young  Melissa  hung  her  head  in  fright. 

"  Forbear !"  cried  the  Lady  Ida. 

"  Hold,  sir !"  said  the  Prince,  and  he  struck 
him  on  the  breast. 

CjvW  started  up,  and  there  rose  a  shriek 
among  the  women  as  if  a  city  were  being 
sacked. 

Melissa  called,  "  Fly  for  your  lives !"  and  the 
Princess,  "  To  horse  !  home !  to  horse !"  And  the 
whole  troop,  panic-stricken  and  bewildered,  sped 
away  into  the  dark. 

Before  the  Prince  could  realize  what  he  had 
lost,  he  stood  alone  with  Florian  in  the  deserted 
I.— A  10* 


114  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

pavilion,  both  cursing  C}Ti],  and  deeply  vexed 
at  what  had  happened.  Like  parting  hopes  ho 
heard  the  hoofs  crossing  the  bridge,  and  then 
came  another  shriek,  "  The  Head,  the  Head,  the 
Princess !"  She  had  missed  the  plank  in  her 
blind  rage  and  rolled  into  the  stream. 

Out  sprang  the  Prince,  and  saw  her  white 
robe  whirling  in  the  waters  towards  the  fall. 
He  gave  a  single  glance,  and  then,  clad  in 
woman's  vestments  as  he  was,  plunged  into  the 
flood  and  caught  her.  Oaring  with  one  arm 
and  bearing  her  up  with  the  other,  he  tried  to 
reach  the  shore,  but  it  was  in  vain.  They  drove, 
at  last,  on  an  uprooted  tree  that  hung  over  the 
water,  and,  grasping  the  boughs  of  this,  the 
Prince,  supporting  the  Lady  Ida,  at  last  gained 
the  shore. 

Her  maidens  were  crowded  to  the  verge  to 
take  her  from  him,  and  they  caught  her  in  their 
arms  and  cried,  "  She  lives."  Then  they  bore 
her  back  into  the  tent,  but  so  abashed  was  the 
Prince  by  what  had  passed  that  he  dared  not 
meet  her  eyes.  He  could  not  find  his  friends 
now,  and  he  therefore  left  her  his  horse,  since 
hers  was  lost,  and  pushed  on  alone  to  find  the 
door-way  to  the  college  gardens. 

By  blind  instinct  he  finally  came  upon  it,  be- 
tween its  two  great  statues  of  Art  and  Science. 
Ho  climbed  over  the  top  with  a  great  efibrt, 


The  Princess.  115 

dropping  on  the  grass  wittiin,  and  paced  back 
and  forth  in  a  tumult  of  thought,  till  at  last  a 
light  step  echoed,  and  then  a  lofty  female  form 
came  into  view  through  the  uncertain  gloom. 
At  first  he  thought  it  was  Ida  herself,  but  it 
proved  to  be  Florian. 

"  Hush,"  said  he ;  "  they  are  seeking  us.  '  Seize 
the  strangers!'  is  the  cry  everywhere.  How 
came  you  here  ?" 

The  Prince  told  him. 

"  I,"  said  he,  "  came  back  with  the  rest,  sus- 
pected and  avoided.  I  crept  into  the  hall  and 
slipped  behind  a  statue,  and  saw  the  girls  called 
up  for  trial.  Bach  one  disclaimed  all  knowledge 
of  us,  until,  last  of  all,  came  Melissa.  I  pitied 
her,  poor  child.  At  first  she  was  silent,  but 
when  she  was  pressed  closer  she  confessed ;  and 
then,  when  they  asked  if  her  mother  knew,  or 
Psyche,  she  refused  to  say.  The  Princess  formed 
her  own  conclusion  and  sent  for  Psyche,  but  she 
could  not  be  found.  She  called  for  Psyche's 
child  to  cast  it  out-of-doors.  Then  she  sent  for 
Blanche  to  accuse  her  face  to  face.  I  slipped 
away  and  came  here.  But  where  will  you  go 
now  ?  And  where  are  Psyche  and  Cyril  ?  Both 
have  gone.  What  if  they  have  gone  together? 
Would  we  had  never  come  I  I  dread  his  wild- 
ness  and  the  travel  through  the  dark." 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  Prince,  "  you  wrong  him 


116  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

more  than  I  did,  who  struck  him.  His  is  not 
the  nature  of  the  clown,  to  wrong  what  he  loves. 
For  however  wild  he  may  be  in  frolic,  as  to- 
night, yet  he  has  a  true  heart  under  his  gayety." 

Scarcely  had  the  Prince  done  speaking  when 
from  a  tamarisk  near  by  sjDrang  two  Proctors, 
crying,  "Names!"  Florian  standing  still  was 
taken,  but  the  Prince  escaped,  and  led  his  pur- 
suer a  race  through  all  the  windings  of  the  gar- 
den. At  last  his  foot  caught  in  a  vine,  and  he 
tripped  and  clasped  the  feet  of  a  statue,  and 
was  caught  and  known  at  once. 

They  were  taken  immediately  before  the  Prin- 
cess, who  sat  enthroned  in  the  hall  with  a  single 
lamp  above  her  and  handmaids  on  either  side, 
bowing  towards  her  and  combing  out  her  long 
hair,  still  damp  from  the  river.  Close  behind 
her  were  eight  strong  daughters  of  the  plough, 
huge  women  of  the  open  ah',  ready  to  do  her 
commands. 

As  the  captives  were  brought  in,  the  crowd 
divided,  and  they  went  upward  to  the  throne. 
There  beside  it  lay  Psyche's  babe,  half  naked 
as  it  had  been  snatched  from  bed.  At  the  left 
Melissa  knelt  in  tears,  but  the  Lady  Blanche 
stood  up  and  defended  herself  in  vigorous 
speech,  rehearsing  all  her  wrongs  since  Psyche 
came  into  the  college,  and  rating  her  own  virtues 
at  no  niggardly  value. 


The  Princess.  117 

To  her  the  Princess  coldly  replied,  "  Good. 
But  your  oath  is  broken.  We  dismiss  you. 
You  can  go  at  once.  As  for  this  lost  lamb,  we 
take  it  to  ourself  for  redemption." 

The  Lady  Blanche  snarled  out  a  defiance  and 
caught  Melissa  by  the  arm  to  drag  her  away. 
The  girl  cast  an  imploring  look  on  Ida,  which 
touched  Florian  to  the  heart;  and  while  all 
were  gazing  on  her  as  she  hung  like  a  daughter 
of  Niobe,  one  arm  appealing  to  Heaven,  a  little 
stir  began  about  the  door-way,  and  on  a  sud- 
den in  rushed  a  post-woman,  out  of  breath, 
who  went  straight  to  the  throne,  where  she 
knelt  and  delivered  despatches.  The  Head  took 
them  and  tore  them  open  in  visible  amazement. 
As  she  read,  a  wrathful  flush  spread  over  her 
cheeks  and  bosom,  and  her  breath  came  half  in 
sobs.  The  papers  rustled  in  her  trembling  hand 
through  the  dead  hush ;  then  the  babe  at  her 
feet  began  to  cry ;  and  this  jarred  on  her 
anger.  She  crushed  the  scrolls  together  and 
made  a  sudden  movement  as  if  to  speak,  but 
utterance  failed  her,  and  she  whirled  the  letters 
to  the  Prince  as  who  should  say,  "  Eead." 

One  letter  was  from  the  King,  her  father : 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the  Prince  to 
you  we  were  not  aware  of  your  ungracious  laws. 
We  came  after  him  in  haste  to  hinder  any  wrong, 
but  we  fell  into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this 


118  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

night  slipped  round  in  the  dark  and  invested 
you.     He  keeps  me  hostage  for  his  son." 

The  other  was  from  the  Prince's  father  to 
the  Princess,  and  ran  : 

"  You  have  our  son !  Do  not  touch  a  hair  of 
his  head.  Eender  him  up  unscathed  and  give 
him  your  hand  forthwith.  Keep  your  contract, 
or  we  will  this  very  night  destroy  your  palace." 

Thus  far  the  Prince  read,  then  stood  up  and 
spoke  impetuously, — 

"  Hear  me,  O  noble  Ida,  and  believe  that  I 
speak  the  truth.  I  and  my  companions  came 
hither  not  to  pry  into  your  reserve,  but  led  by 
golden  hopes, — hopes  that  sprang  from  the  royal 
compact  made  long  ago.  As  a  child  I  babbled  of 
you.  My  nurse  would  tell  me  tales  about  your 
land  to  beguile  me  into  rest.  As  a  boy  you  stooped 
to  me  from  all  high  places  and  lived  in  all  fair 
lights.  At  morning  and  evening  I  heard  the 
woods  ring  with  your  name,  and  you  were  a 
part  of  all  I  beheld  on  land  or  sea.  As  I  would 
have  striven  to  reach  you  had  you  been  impris- 
oned in  some  other  world,  so,  my  youth  past  and 
manhood  giving  me  the  firmer  will,  1  came  and 
found  you  here.  You  were  more  than  all  I  had 
dreamed  or  desired,  more  than  the  loveliest 
visions  of  boyhood,  more  than  the  serene  ideals 
of  thoughtful  youth,  and  as  I  lingered  near  you 
through  the  days  the  beauty  ripened  and  deep- 


The  Princess.  119 

ened  to  my  senses,  and  I  cannot  leave  you,  O  my 
Princess.  I  must  follow  you  forever.  And  yet 
I  did  not  come  to  yo\x  all  unauthorized."  And 
then  on  one  knee  he  reached  up  to  her  her  father's 
letter,  and  she  caught  it  and  dashed  it  unopened 
at  her  feet.  A  tide  of  fierce  words  seemed  to  fal- 
ter at  her  lips  just  ready  to  burst,  and  she  would 
have  spoken,  but  there  rose  a  great  hubbub 
in  the  court  below,  where  half  the  girls  were 
gathered  together  in  a  noisy  confusion  crying 
out  in  fear  of  the  rumored  invasion. 

The  Head  stood  up,  robed  in  her  loose  black 
hair,  and  moved  to  the  open  window.  She 
stretched  forth  her  arms  and  called  out  across 
the  tumult,  and  at  once  it  ceased. 

"  What  do  you  fear  ?  Am  I  not  your  Head  ? 
The  storm  breaks  on  me  first  of  all.  I  am  able 
to  bear  it;  what,  then,  do  you  fear?  Peace! 
our  defenders  will  come.  And  if  they  do  not 
come,  what  matter?  I  will  unfurl  our  banner 
and  meet  the  foe,  or  die  proudly  the  first  martyr 
of  our  cause." 

Hereupon  the  crowd  dissolved  and  moved 
away,  and  the  Lady  Ida  turned  to  the  Prince 
with  mock  civilities  and  praise  that  had  a  bit- 
terness beneath  it.  Then  she  burst  forth  into 
uncontrolled  anger. 

"  I  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  yourself!"  , 
she  cried.   "  Begone,  sir !   Your  falsehood  is  hate- 


120  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ful  to  us.  Here,  push  them  from  the  gates." 
And  her  stalwart  attendants  advanced  mena- 
cingly. Twice  the  Prince  sought  to  plead  his 
cause ;  but  the  heavy  hands  were  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  he  and  Florian  were  forced  rudely  from 
her  presence,  and,  amid  grim  jeers  and  laughter, 
thrust  out  of  the  gates. 

They  crossed  the  road  and  gained  a  little 
mound,  from  which  they  could  see  the  lights 
within  and  hear  the  murmur  of  the  voices. 

As  the  Prince  listened  he  was  seized  once 
again  with  his  ghostly  malady,  and  all  the 
past,  Princess  and  monstrous  women-guards, 
the  cataract  and  the  warring  Kings,  were 
shadows.  This  went  by  anon,  as  swiftly  as  it 
came,  but  it  left  him  under  a  cloud  of  melan- 
choly, which  shaking  off  as  best  he  could,  he 
and  Florian  moved  away  into  the  darkness. 

lY. 

Scarcely  had  the  Prince  and  Florian  gone 
three  paces  when  they  were  saluted  by  a  sen- 
tinel's voice : 

"  Stand !     Who  goes  there  ?" 

"  Two  from  the  palace,"  answered  the  Prince. 

"  The  second  two ;  they  wait.  Pass  on,"  said 
the  voice. 

Then  a  soldier  in  clanking  steel  led  them 
through  the  avenues  of  tents  until  they  heard 


The  Princess.  121 

the  royal  ensign  flapping  above  the  imperial 
head-quarters.  The  two  fugitives  entered,  and 
the  sudden  light  half  blinded  them,  while  all 
within  began  to  titter  and  whisper  together  at 
their  woman's  garb,  and  finally  broke  forth  into 
open  laughter.  From  King  to  beardless  cap- 
tains the  entire  company  shook  with  prolonged 
mirth,  till  at  length  the  Prince's  father  panted 
to  his  royal  hostage, — 

"  King,  you  are  free.  We  kept  you  only  as 
surety  for  our  son, — if  this,  indeed,  be  our  son — 
or  art  thou  some  bedraggled  scullion  ?"  for  the 
Prince  was  drenched  and  torn  with  briers  and 
all  in  rags.  Then  his  father  roared  on,  "  Go, 
make  yourself  a  man  worthy  to  fight  with  men ! 
Cyril  has  told  us  all." 

Florian  and  the  Prince  stole  away  and 
changed  their  female  attire  for  glittering  ar- 
mor, and  came  forth  into  the  morning  sun, 
which  now  had  risen  full  above  the  northern 
hills.  Here  Cyril  met  them,  at  first  a  little 
shyly,  but  by  and  by  they  asked  a  mutual  par- 
don, and  then  began  the  exchange  of  news. 
Cyril  had  fled  away  through  the  darkness,  and 
later  in  the  night  had  come  upon  the  weeping 
Psyche.  "  Then  we  fell  into  the  King's  hands," 
he  said,  "  and  she  lies  over  there  still  and  speech- 
less." He  pointed  to  a  tent  a  stone's  throw 
away,  and  they  went  thither  and  entered. 
F  11 


122  Tales  from  Ten  Tods. 

Within,  amf)ng  piles  of  arms  and  accoutre- 
ments, wrapped  in  a  soldier's  cloak,  upon  the 
ground,  lay  Psyche ;  at  her  head  a  wrinkled 
old  woman,  follower  of  the  camp,  was  crouch- 
ing like  a  watcher  of  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt  down  by  her  and  whis- 
pered, "  Come,  sweet  sister,  lift  up  your  head. 
You  have  done  no  wrong.  You  could  not  slay 
me  nor  your  Prince.     Look  up  ;  be  comforted." 

The  Prince  likewise  strove  to  soothe  her. 
"  And  I,  too,"  he  said,  "  have  I  not  also  lost  her, 
in  whose  least  act  there  is  a  nameless  charm  ?" 

She  seemed  now  to  hear,  and  moaned  feebly, 
and  then  sat  up  and  raised  the  cloak  from  her 
pallid  face. 

"  Her !"  she  said,  "  my  friend, — parted  from 
her, — betrayer  of  her  cause  and  my  own  !  Where 
shall  I  breathe  ?"  Then  she  cried  with  a  new 
impulse,  "  Why  did  you  break  your  faith  ?  Oh, 
base  heart !  What  comfort  for  me  ?  None, 
none!" 

"Yet,  I  pray,"  pleaded  Cyril,  "take  comfort; 
live,  dear  lady,  for  your  child."  At  this  she 
fairly  broke  down,  and  sobbed  piteously. 

"  Ah  me !  my  child,  my  one  sweet  child !  Ida 
will  hold  her  back,  and  she  will  die  of  neglect 
or  sicken  with  ill-usage.  For  every  little  fault 
she  will  be  blamed  because  she  is  mine.  They 
will  beat  her  because  she  is  mine.      Oh,  my 


The  Princess.  123 

flower,  my  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia !  Ah,  what 
might  not  that  man  deserve  of  me  who  should 
bring  me  my  sweet  AgUiia  ?" 

"Be  comforted,"  said  Cyril;  "you  shall  have 
her." 

She  veiled  her  face  once  more,  and  sank  back 
upon  the  ground  and  would  not  rise  again. 

But  now  a  murmur  ran  through  the  camp, 
and  the  scouts  came  in  with  rumor  of  Prince 
Arac's  arrival.  The  Prince  and  his  friends  left 
Psyche  with  the  woman,  and,  going  out,  found 
the  Kings  in  parley. 

"Look  you,"  said  the  Prince's  father,  "that 
the  compact  be  strictly  fulfilled !  You  have 
spoilt  this  girl :  she  laughs  at  you.  She  shall 
yield  now — or  war !" 

Then  King  Gama  turned  to  the  Prince :  "  We 
fear  you  spent  a  stormy  time  with  the  Princess. 
Yet  they  say  you  still  love  her.  Give  us  your 
mind :  how  say  you,  war  or  not  ?" 

"  Not  war,  sire,  if  possible,"  said  the  Prince. 
"I  want  her  love.  War  would  not  bring  me 
that ;  it  would  gain  me  only  her  scorn.  She 
would  hate  me  for  it." 

"Tut!  you  do  not  know  these  girls,"  his 
father  roughly  broke  in.  "  Look  you,  sir !  Man 
is  a  hunter,  woman  is  the  game.  We  hunt  them 
just  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins,  and  they  love 
us  for  it.    Out !  for  shame,  boy !    There's  no  rose 


124  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

half  so  dear  to  thera  as  the  man  that  does  what 
they  dare  not  do.  A  soldier  wins  the  coldest 
heart  among  them.  I  won  your  mother  so ;  and 
a  good  wife,  worth  winning,  she  was.  But  this 
firebrand, — no  gentleness  for  her." 

"  True,"  said  the  Prince.  "  But,  sire,  wild  na- 
tures need  wise  curbs.  Ida  dares  all  that  a 
soldier  might  dare.  I  saw  her  last  night  when 
she  rose  storming  and  cast  down  defiance  to 
all  opponents.  Believe  me,  sire,  she  would  not 
shun  death, — not  even  the  warrior's.  And  yet  I 
hold  her  a  true  woman.  But  you  class  them 
all  as  one,  and  make  no  allowance  for  varying 
types.  Were  we  half  as  good  and  kind  as 
they  are,  much  that  Ida  claims  as  her  due 
would  never  be  questioned." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  speak  but  sense,"  said  King 
Gama.  "  We  remember  love  ourself  in  our 
sweet  youth.  You  talk  almost  like  Ida  herself; 
and  she  can  talk.  Yes,  there's  something  in 
what  you  say,  and  we  esteem  you  for  it."  Then 
turning  to  the  King,  "  He  seems  a  gracious  and 
gallant  Prince.  I  would  he  had  our  daughter." 
He  spoke  on  indulgently  of  the  invasion  and  of 
his  detention  in  the  invader's  camp,  and  lightly 
excused  his  neighbor  for  the  trespass  because 
of  the  provocation  he  had  received.  "  But  let 
your  Prince,"  at  last  he  said,  "  ride  with  us  to 
our  lines.     Our    royal  word   for  it  he  comes 


The  Princess.  125 

back  safely.  We  will  speak  with  Arac.  His 
influence  is  more  powerful  than  ours.  Some- 
thing may  thus  be  done.  And  you  also,"  he 
said  to  Cyril  and  Florian,  "follow  us,  if  you 

will." 

He  bade  farewell  then  t&  the  Prince's  father, 
who  growled  an  answer  in  his  beard,  which  let 
just  enough  out  to  give  them  leave  to  go. 

They  rode  forth  across  the  fields  beneath 
huge  trees  where  the  birds  piped  amorously, 
and  touched  by  their  songs  the  Prince  was  led 
to  pour  his  own  passion  into  the  ear  of  King 
Gama,  who  promised  help  and  made  many  a 
kindly  answer  to  the  Prince's  warm  words. 
But  they  soon  came  within  sight  of  Prince 
Arac's  forces,  who  were  advancing  in  warlike 
squadrons  to  meet  them.  A  cry  of  greeting  to 
the  King  went  up  as  he  approached,  and  then 
the  army  halted  amid  a  great  clashing  of  arms 
and  neighing  of  horses.  The  drums  beat,  and  a 
horn  blew  out  a  long  blast,  and  there  rode  out 
from  the  midst  of  the  glittering  ranks  three 
huge  warriors,  the  tallest  and  mightiest  of 
whom  was  Arac.  The  Prince  recognized  him, 
because  about  his  every  motion  there  was  a 
shadow  of  his  sister  Ida. 

When  the  Prince  beheld  this  martial  sight 
his  desire  for  peace  turned  to  a  stirring  impulse 
for  war ;  but  the  King  drew  close  to  his  three 

11* 


126  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

huge  sons,  and,  now  pointing  this  way  and  now 
that,  told  them  all  that  had  happened.  They 
smiled  as  he  spoke  of  the  Prince's  disguise,  and 
the  giant  Arac  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter  as 
he  rode  up  to  him. 

"But  how  is  this,  Prince?  what  does  this 
mean  ?  Our  land  invaded,  our  father  taken  cap- 
tive, and  yet  no  war  I  I  care  not  in  truth 
whether  there  be  war  or  not ;  but  then  this 
question  of  your  troth.  She's  honest  at  heart, 
believe  me,  but  she  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too 
high.  Sweet  enough  to  those  she  loves,  though. 
But  I  still  stand  on  her  side.  She  made  me 
swear  it  with  solemn  rites  by  candle-light.  I 
swore  by  St.  something,  I  forget  what,  but  I 
swore,  and  there's  an  end.  She  will  not  wed ; 
so  waive  your  claim,  or,  else,  war,  with  or  with- 
out my  father's  consent." 

The  Prince  hesitated,  desiring  to  achieve  his 
purpose  by  peaceful  means,  and  so  the  likelier 
gain  his  bride,  but  one  of  the  stalwart  brothers 
whispered  audibly, — 

"  I  thought  as  much :  the  woman's  skirt  hid  a 
woman's  heart." 

This  taunt  was  more  than  Cyril's  impetu- 
ous nature  could  endure.  He  flung  back  some 
piercing  and  bitter  words,  and  the  Prince  an- 
swered hotly, — 

"  Decide  it  here,  then.   We  are  three  to  three." 


The  Princess.  127 

"But  only  three  to  three?"  said  the  third 
brother, — "no  more,  and  in  such  a  cause  ?  Every 
soldier  of  us  waits,  hungry  for  honor.  Why  not 
have  fifty  on  a  side  ?" 

"  As  you  will,"  said  the  Prince.  "  But  it  must 
be  solely  for  honor,  since  if  we  win  we  are  no 
nearer  to  securing  her  than  if  we  fail.  She 
would  not  keep  her  compact  the  more  readily." 

"  'Sdeath,"  said  Arae,  "  but  we  will  send  her 
potent  reasons  for  biding  by  the  issue.  Let  our 
messenger  go  through,  and  you  shall  have  her 
answer  before  we  begin." 

"Boys!"  shrieked  the  old  King  in  terror, 
but  his  appeal  was  in  vain.  No  one  regarded 
him. 

The  Prince,  with  Florian  and  Cyril,  rode  back 
to  the  camp,  and  found  that  his  father  had 
thrice  sent  a  herald  to  Ida's  gates  to  learn  if 
she  would  acknowledge  his  claim.  The  first 
time  there  was  no  response.  The  next  time  he 
was  warned  away  by  an  awful  voice  within. 
The  third  time  the  eight  monstrous  plough- 
women  sallied  forth  and  belabored  him  roundly. 
But  when  the  Prince  told  the  King  that  he  was 
pledged  to  fight  for  his  bride  in  tourney,  he 
clashed  the  royal  hands  together  with  a  cry, 
and  vowed  he  would  himself  fight  it  out  with 
the  lads.  But,  overborne  by  wiser  counsels,  he 
yielded  sullenly,  while  many  a  knight  started 


128  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

up  and  swore  to  do  combat  for  the  Prince's  claim 
while  life  lasted. 

The  field  whereon  the  camp  lay  ran  up  to 
Ida's  very  palace-walls,  above  which  rose  pol- 
ished columns  and  great  bronzes  of  exalted 
women  that  overlooked  the  marble  stairways 
within.  Here,  the  whole  morning  long,  the 
lists  were  hammered  up,  while  heralds  went  to 
and  fro  with  messages  from  the  opposing  hosts. 
At  last  Ida's  answer  came.  It  was  written  in  a 
royal  hand,  which  trembled  here  and  there  in 
spite  of  her  resolution.  The  Prince  kissed  it 
and  read  it  aloud  to  the  King. 

It  told  of  Ida's  ambitions  and  ideals,  and  how 
they  had  been  thwarted  by  a  troop  of  saucy 
boys,  who  stole  in  masked  like  her  own  maidens, 
blustering  insolence  and  love,  and  making  claims 
upon  her  because  of  some  old  compact  which 
she  herself  had  never  set  her  hand  to.  She 
assented  to  the  trial  by  martial  combat,  and 
urged  her  brother  Arac  to  fight  manfully,  for 
he  was  in  the  right,  but  not  to  kill  the  Prince, 
because  he  had  once  risked  his  life  for  hers. 
Then,  in  a  postscript  written  across  the  rest, 
she  warned  him  against  treason  in  his  camp, 
and  spoke  of  Psyche's  child  as  her  chiefest 
comfort  in  her  own  nest  of  traitors.  She  took 
it,  she  said,  into  her  own  bod  for  an  hour  that 
morning,   and  the  tender  little  orphan  hands 


The  Princess.  129 

felt  at  her  heart  and  charmed  away  the  wrath 
that  burned  there  against  the  world. 

This  was  all  the  letter  said,  and  when  he 
had  heard  it  the  King  muttered,— 

"  Stubborn,  but  yet  fit  to  breed  up  warriors. 
This  Gama  has  lost  all  his  power  by  lazy  toler- 
ance, and  she  has  taken  the  helm.  But  she's 
yet  a  colt ;  take  her  and  break  her,  boy  I  Besides, 
they  say  she's  comely.  "Well,  I  like  her  none 
the  less  for  her  hardihood.  A  lusty  pair  of 
twins  would  cure  her  folly.  The  bearing  of 
children  is  the  wisdom  of  a  woman." 

The  Prince  paid  little  heed  to  the  hard  old 
King,  but  took  his  leave  and  pored  over  the  let- 
ter line  by  line,  but  chiefly  over  the  few  words 
which  asked  Arac  to  spare  his  life.  He  mused 
again  upon  his  morning  in  the  wood,  when  the 
leaves  sung,  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win." 
And  then  he  remembered  the  sorcerer's  curse, 
that  one  of  his  race  should  fall  fighting  shadows, 
and  like  a  flash  his  seizure  was  again  upon  him. 
All  things  around  him  turned  to  shadow,  and 
he  seemed  to  move  in  olden  tilts  doing  battle 
with  ghosts. 

When  he  had  partly  emerged  from  his  wak- 
ing dream  it  was  noon,  and  the  lists  were  ready. 
He  put  on  his  armor  with  all  haste,  and  entered 
the  arena  with  the  rest.  Fifty  were  there 
opposed  to  fifty.  Then  the  trumpet  sounded 
l.—i 


130  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

twice  at  the  barrier,  and  the  combat  began. 
There  was  a  storm  of  beating  hoofs,  and  the 
riders,  front  to  front,  dashed  upon  one  another 
with  thunderous  clang  of  steel  and  splintered 
weapons.  Yet  to  the  Prince  it  all  somehow 
seemed  only  a  dream  he  had  dreamed.  The  steed 
rose  on  his  haunches ;  the  lance  shivered  in  the 
iron  hand ;  sparks  flew  from  the  smitten  helmets, 
and  part  of  the  noble  company  sat  like  rocks, 
while  part  reeled  and  fell  to  the  earth,  only  to 
rise  again  with  drawn  swords  and  unconquer- 
able prowess. 

Arac,  with  the  twin  brothers  by  his  side, 
rained  down  a  shower  of  mighty  blows  as  here 
and  there  he  rode,  lord  of  the  lists.  The  whole 
plain  rang  like  a  beaten  anvil,  so  fierce  and  so 
ceaseless  were  his  strokes. 

The  Prince  marvelled  that  such  might  should 
spring  from  the  loins  of  the  King,  dwarfish 
Gama;  and  then,  glancing  aside,  he  saw  the 
palace  front  alive  with  fiuttering  scarfs  and 
groups  of  women  perched  in  its  marble  niches ; 
but  highest  of  all,  standing  like  a  statue  among 
the  statues,  he  saw  Ida  watching  them,  with 
Psyche's  babe  in  her  sternly  folded  arras,  A 
single  band  of  gold  was  about  her  hair  like  a 
saint's  glory,  but  from  her  eyes  shone  an  inexor- 
able light,  too  cruel  for  saintship.  He  thought, 
as  he  gazed  an  instant  upon  her, — 


The  Princess.  131 

"  Yet,  for  all  that,  she  sees  me  fight.  What 
if  she  saw  me  fall  ?" 

With  this  he  pressed  among  the  thickest  of 
the  warfare  and  bore  down  a  prince,  and  Cyril 
fighting  by  his  side  slew  another.  Then  Arac, 
with  a  malignant  grin  upon  his  face,  made  at 
the  Prince,  and  all  gave  way  before  him  as 
he  approached, — all  but  Florian,  who,  loving 
his  royal  friend  better  than  his  own  right 
eye,  thrust  in  between  them.  But  Arac  rode 
him  down.  Then  Cyril,  seeing  this,  pushed  in 
against  the  Prince,  wearing  Psyche's  color  on 
his  helmet.  He  was  tough  and  supple  and  apt 
at  arms,  but  Arac  was  stronger  and  tougher, 
and  he  threw  him  at  one  stroke  of  the  lance. 

Then  the  Prince  spurred  on  and  felt  his  veins 
stretch  with  a  fierce  heat.  It  was  but  a  mo- 
ment hand  to  hand.  The  Prince  struck  out  and 
shouted.  His  blade  glanced,  and  he  grazed  only 
a  feather  in  Arac's  plume.  Then  dream  and 
truth  flowed  out  together  from  his  brain.  Dark- 
ness closed  around  him,  and  he  fell  heavily, 
with  jangling  armor,  down  from  his  horse  to 
the  ground. 

Y. 

After  the  Prince's  fall  the  fight  grew  more 
and  more  sullen  and  determined.  The  hardier 
knights  of  both  sides  held  out  the  longest,  and 
the  battle   between  them  was  grimly  earnest. 


132  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

There  was  no  faltering,  no  slightest  recoil  from 
the  doom  which  must  await  them.  Each  fought 
for  mastery,  and  the  courage  of  the  opposing 
sides  was  equal. 

But  at  last  King  Gama's  knights  slowly 
gained  the  advantage,  and  finally  the  day  was 
theirs.     Then  there  went  up  a  great  cry, — 

"  The  Prince  is  slain !" 

His  father  heard  this  and  ran  frantically  into 
the  lists.  He  found  his  son,  and  unlaced  his 
casque  and  grovelled  in  distress  upon  his  body. 
After  him  went  Psyche,  but  her  sorrow  for 
Aglaia  eclipsed  her  grief  for  the  fallen  Prince. 

But  Ida  stood  all  this  while  on  the  palace 
roof  with  Psyche's  young  child  in  her  arms, 
and  sung  a  chant  of  victory.  She  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  rejoicing  over  the  downfall  of  her 
foes,  and  her  tongue  gave  vent  to  sonorous 
words  of  triumph,  which  rang  above  all  the 
murmur  of  the  throngs  below  her. 

"And  now,  O  maids,"  she  cried,  "our  sanc- 
tuary is  violated,  our  laws  are  broken.  Fear  not 
to  break  them  more  in  behoof  of  those  who  have 
done  battle  for  our  rights.  Come,  since  we  are 
vindicated,  let  not  our  heroes  lie  uncared  for  in 
their  tents,  but  descend  and  proffer  tender  min- 
istries, that  come  sweet  from  female  hands." 

With  the  babe  still  in  her  arms,  she  herself 
came  down  and  burst  open  the  great  bronze 


The  Princess.  133 

gates,  and  led  a  throng  of  maids,  some  cowled 
and  some  bareheaded,  as  it  chanced,  into  the 
bloody  lists.  The  Lady  Blanche  followed  timidly 
at  a  distance,  but '  Ida  entered  undaunted,  and 
went  straight  to  where  her  wounded  brothers 
lay.  There  she  knelt  on  one  knee,  resting  the 
child  upon  the  other,  and  pressed  their  hands 
and  called  them  her  deliverers  and  a  score  more 
of  noble  names. 

"  You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents,  but  here  in  our 
college,"  she  murmured,  lovingly,  "  and  nursed 
by  those  you  fought  for  and  served  by  all  our 
willing  hands." 

Then,  whether  impelled  either  by  such  soften- 
ing contact,  or  likelier  by  chance,  she  moved  to- 
wards the  Prince.  The  old  King  rose  from  his 
son's  side  as  she  approached,  and  glared  at  her 
silently  but  with  threatening  aspect.  But  when 
she  saw  the  youthful  figure  lying  dishelmed  and 
mute,  without  a  motion,  and  cold  even  to  her, 
she  drew  a  sigh  ;  and  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
the  father's  haggard  face  and  beheld  his  beard, 
grisly  and  reverend  with  age,  all  dabbled  with 
his  own  son's  blood,  she  shuddered  and  her 
mouth  twitched  with  pain.    At  last  she  spoke, — 

"O  sire,  he  saved  my  life,  and  my  brother 
slew  him  for  it." 

She  said  no  more  than  this ;  and  the  old  King, 
in  utter  scorn,  drew  forth  from  the  boy's  neck 

12 


134  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  portrait  of  her  and  the  tress  of  her  hair 
which  he  always  wore  there. 

She  saw  these  and  recognized  them;  and  a 
day  rose  up  out  of  the  past  into  her  memory 
when  her  mother,  the  Queen,  cut  the  tress  with 
many  kisses,  long,  long  before  the  time  of  Lady 
Blanche  and  her  formal  theories.  Then  once 
again  she  looked  down  at  the  Prince's  pale  face 
and  stark,  immovable  form.  As  by  a  flash  of 
light  she  seemed  to  recognize  the  bitter  results, 
the  vain  and  heartless  work  wrought  by  errant 
fancy  and  vague  ideals.  She  was  touched  anew 
to  the  sense  of  human  needs  and  the  blessings 
of  human  fellowship. 

She  bowed  her  head  and  set  the  child  upon 
the  ground,  then  she  tenderly  touched  the 
Prince's  brow. 

"  O  Sire,"  she  suddenly  cried,  "  touch  him ! 
He  lives ;  he  is  not  dead.  Come,  let  him  be 
brought  here  with  my  brothers  into  our  own 
palace.  I  will  tend  him  like  one  of  them.  The 
thanks  I  owe  him  win  me  from  my  goal !" 

The  King  stooped  anxiously  over  his  son; 
and  Ida,  from  the  opposite  side,  bent  down, 
and  the  two  heads  touched  above  him,  mixing 
their  black  and  gray  locks  like  the  meeting  of 
evening  and  night. 

Psyche,  too,  stole  nearer  and  nearer,  till  the 
babe,  that  lay  by  them  unnoticed  on  the  grass, 


The  Princess.  135 

spied  its  mother  and  began  to  laugh  and  babble 
at  her,  and  to  stretch  forth  its  innocent  arms 
for  a  caress. 

Psyche  could  not  resist  the  sweet  appeal. 
She  stood  a  little  way  off  the  group  and  cried, — 

"  My  child !  mine,  not  yours !  Give  me  my 
child,  I  say !"  Then  she  ceased,  all  in  a  tremble, 
and  with  a  face  full  of  piteous  pleading. 

The  near-by  groups  turned  to  look  at  her. 
Her  cheek  was  wan  with  care  and  longing ;  her 
mantle  was  torn  and  awry ;  and  her  bodice  had 
slipped  its  hooks  and  fell  away  from  her  throat ; 
but  she  did  not  heed  this  nor  know  it.  She 
clamored  on  wildly  again,  till  Ida  heard,  and, 
rising  slowly  from  beside  the  Prince,  she  stood 
up  silent  and  erect.  Her  glance  encompassed 
the  mother,  the  child,  and  the  Prince.  But  as 
she  gazed  upon  them,  Cyril,  all  battered  as  he 
was,  drew  himself  up  on  one  knee  and  caught 
her  robe  to  his  lips.  She  looked  down  at  the 
armed  figure  sidewise,  insensibly  or  half  in  pity ; 
but  when  she  saw  his  face,  the  memory  of  his 
ribald  song  darkened  her  brow,  and  she  arose 
above  him  to  all  her  majestic  height,  tall  as  a 
shadow  lengthened  out  upon  the  sand. 

"  O  fair  and  terrible  !"  he  said.  "  But  Love 
and  Nature,  are  not  they  stronger  and  more 
terrible?  Your  foot  is  on  our  necks,  lady. 
You  have  conquered.     What  more  would  you 


136  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

have  ?  Give  her  the  child !"  He  railed  long 
and  boldly  against  her  hardness,  which  shut  out 
love,  and  at  last,  "  Or  if  you  scorn,"  he  said, 
"to  hand  it  to  her  yourself,  or  speak  to  one 
who  owns  to  the  fault  of  tenderness,  then  give 
it  to  me.     I  will  give  it  to  her !" 

At  first  the  Princess  listened  with  haughty 
disdain,  but  her  humor  changed  as  he  spoke, 
and  at  length  she  took  up  the  child  and  called 
it  by  a  score  of  endearing  names. 

"  Farewell,"  she  said  to  it  at  last.  "  These  men 
are  as  unjust  to  us  as  they  always  were ;  and 
we  two  must  part,  my  little  one.  Yet  I  was 
fain  to  think  thy  cause  might  be  one  with  mine, 
that  I  might  be  something  to  thee  in  the  years 
to  come."     Here  she  kissed  it,  then, — 

"  All  good  go  with  thee !  Take  it,  sir,"  and 
80  laid  the  soft  infant  in  Cyril's  mailed  hands. 

He  turned  half  round  to  Psyche  as  she  sprang 
to  meet  it  with  eyes  that  spoke  untold  thanks,  and 
she  took  it  and  mouthed  it,  and  pressed  it  madly 
to  her  bosom,  and  then,  afterwards,  she  grew 
calm,  and  said  in  supplicating  tones  to  Ida, — 

"  We  two  were  friends.  I  am  going  back  to 
my  own  land.  I  was  not  fit  for  the  great  things 
you  planned.  Yet  say  one  soft  word  to  me  and 
let  U8  part  forever." 

The  Princess  said  nothing,  but  gazed  raptly 
upon  the  child. 


Tlie  Princess.  137 

"  Ida !  'sdeath !"  exclaimed  Arac,  "  you  blame 
the  men ;  but  who  is  so  hard  upon  woman  as 
woman?  Come,  a  grace  to  me!  I  am  your 
warrior.  We  have  fought  your  battle,  now  kiss 
her;  take  her  hand.  See,  she  is  weeping.  I'd 
sooner  fight  thrice  over  than  see  her  weep." 

Still  Ida  said  nothing.  But  King  Gama, 
moved  beyond  his  custom,  cried, — 

"  I've  heard  there  is  iron  in  the  blood,  and 
now  I  believe  it.  Not  one  word  ?  Not  a  single 
one?  Where  did  you  get  this  hard  temper? 
Not,  I  swear,  from  me.  Not  from  your  mother, 
either,  for  she  said  you  had  a  heart — I  heard 
her  say  it  just  as  she  died :  '  Our  Ida  has  a 
heart,  but  see  that  some  one  be  near  her  with 
authority.'  I  brought  you  the  Lady  Blanche, 
and  what  did  it  profit  you?  And,  now,  not  a 
word?"  He  chided  her  roundly  for  her  whims 
that  had  cost  so  much  good  life,  for  her  ingrati- 
tude to  him  who  had  yielded  so  greatly,  for  her 
fickle  liking,  which  could  so  easily  give  up  a 
bosom  friend ;  and  then,  exasperated  into  un- 
wonted energy, 

"  Out  upon  you,  flint  I  You  love  no  one ; 
neither  me  nor  your  brothers,  nor  any  one  but 
your  own  wilful  self." 

But  Ida  made  no  reply  to  his  wrathful  out- 
burst, nor  spoke  a  word  to  Psyche.  Her  head 
bent  a  little,  and  she  stood  as  if  a  relaxing  lan- 

12* 


138  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

guor  had  taken  possession  of  all  her  limbs. 
Across  her  mouth  flitted  now  and  then  the 
shadow  of  a  smile. 

But  now  the  Prince's  father  broke  forth  in 
mighty  indignation : 

"  You,  whom  I  thought  a  woman !  There  is 
no  woman  in  you.  Not  mercy  for  your  accom- 
plice !  Then  I  would  not  trust  my  boy  to  your 
treacherous  hands. — Here,"  and  he  called  his 
own  attendants,  "  take  up  the  Prince  and  carry 
him  out  to  our  tents." 

He  rose  from  beside  the  prostrate  figure,  and 
every  ear  awaited  the  fury  which  should  break 
upon  him  from  those  man-scourging  lips.  But, 
instead,  Ida's  whole  face  broke  into  genial 
warmth,  and  through  glittering  tears  she 
looked  fondly  once  again  on  her  hopeless 
friend. 

"  Come  hither.  Psyche,"  she  cried ;  "  embrace 
me,  quick,  while  the  humor  lasts.  Be  friends 
again  with  one  whose  mind  changes  with  the 
hour.  Ah,  dear  traitor,  too-much-loved  Psyche ! 
We  kiss  you  here  before  these  Kings  in  token 
of  all  forgiveness.  We  love  you  none  the  less 
that  we  dare  not  trust  you."  Then,  turning  to 
the  Prince's  father,  she  said,  beseechingly,  "And 
now,  O  sire,  let  me  be  his  nurse.  I  will  wait 
upon  him  as  upon  my  own  brother,  so  deeply 
do  I  feel  my  debt  of  gratitude.     You  and  your 


The  Princess.  139 

people  shall  have  full  access  to  him,  and  I  will 
send  our  girls  away  till  happier  times.  Help, 
father,  brothers!  Speak  to  the  King,  soften 
him  even  as  I  am  softened  to  feel  the  touch  of 
nature."  She  wept  passionately  then,  but  the 
King  made  no  reply. 

"  Your  brother,  lady,"  said  Cyril,  turning  to 
Psyche,  "  ask  the  Princess  if  you  may  tend  on 
him,  for  he  is  wounded  also." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Ida,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"  Our  laws  are  broken  now :  let  him  enter." 

Then  others  among  the  girls  asked  permission 
for  their  wounded  friends  and  kinsmen,  and  Ida 
gave  a  grieved  and  ironical  assent. 

"Yes,  let  it  be;  our  laws  are  broken  now. 
It  is  best  so." 

"  But  why  hesitate,  your  Highness,  to  trans- 
gress laws  which  you  did  not  make  ?  'Twas  I 
who  made  these  laws,"  said  Lady  Blanche.  She 
turned  an  eye  of  scorn  upon  the  faltering  Head. 

Ida  aifected  to  pay  no  heed  to  her  stinging 
words,  but  cried,  in  despairing  fervor, — 

"  Fling  wide  the  doors !  Bring  all  in,  friend 
and  foe ;  all  shall  be  cared  for  in  our  palace  and 
by  ourselves."  She  turned  to  go,  her  whole  face 
suffused  with  hot  indignation. 

But  Arac  went  up  to  her  with  roughly  sooth- 
ing words,  and  her  father,  the  King,  strove  to 
console   her  with   his   aged   tenderness.      The 


140  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Prince's  father,  also,  at  last  gave  her  his  hand, 
and  they  were  reconciled  by  the  side  of  the 
fallen  Prince. 

Then  the  wounded  were  lifted  up  and  borne 
into  the  palace  hall,  amid  the  astonished  whis- 
pers of  the  pupils  and  the  rustle  of  their  silken 
attire.  Ida  took  her  station  at  the  farther  end, 
her  two  tame  leopards  crouched  at  her  feet ;  but 
in  the  centre  of  the  great  hall  the  common  sol- 
diers paused  with  wondering  eyes,  amazed  by 
its  magnificence,  and  by  the  throngs  of  girls  in 
the  gay  college  vestments.  The  girls,  in  turn, 
stared  wide  with  wonder  at  the  unaccustomed 
entry  of  men  in  their  midst,  and  all  was  silent, 
save  for  the  hum  of  surprise  or  the  occasional 
jangle  of  some  piece  of  armor. 

Then  through  the  hush  the  voice  of  the  Prin- 
cess sounded,  giving  orders  for  the  bestowal  of 
the  maimed  warriors ;  and  they  carried  the 
Prince  up  the  stairs  and  through  long  galleries 
to  a  fair  chamber  shut  out  from  sound  and  in- 
trusion. There  they  left  him;  and  all  the  day 
through  he  could  hear  dull  echoes  from  the 
ground  without  of  the  departing  chariots  which 
bore  away  the  maidens.  But  enough  of  the 
worthiest  of  the  pupils  stayed  behind  to  nurse 
the  sick,  and  these  with  the  great  lords  from 
either  host  beside  the  walls  paced  freely  out 
and  in  at  their  will  in  mingled  converse  and 


The  Princess.  141 

kindly  ministrations.  Thus  was  the  sanctuary 
violated  and  the  palace  turned  into  a  hospital. 
At  first  all  was  confusion,  but  day  by  day  order 
was  restored,  and  everywhere  the  low  voices  of 
the  girls  and  their  tender  hands  cherished  the 
wounded  knights.  They  talked  and  sang  and 
read  and  went  to  and  fro  all  day  long  with 
friendly  and  soothing  offices,  distributing  flowers 
or  books,  like  creatures  who  were  in  their  own 
true  element. 

But  Ida  was  sad.  She  hated  her  weakness, 
and  mourned  that  her  old  studies  were  no  longer 
possible.  She  spoke  seldom,  but  gazed  alone 
for  hours  together,  and  brooded  over  the  disas- 
trous siege  which  had  brought  such  swarms  of 
men  to  her  virgin  threshold.  Her  hopes  were 
thwarted,  her  mission  was  useless,  and  the 
whole  world  seemed  darkened  by  her  disaster. 

From  such  profitless  brooding  at  last  she 
came  down  and  took  her  post  among  the  busy 
maidens,  and  found  peace  once  more  in  work. 

But  the  Prince  lay  unconscious  for  many  days. 
He  did  not  know  whose  hands  were  nursing  him, 
nor  did  he  heed  the  whispered  talk  that  anx- 
iously murmured  across  his  pillow. 

Psyche  tended  on  Florian,  and  Melissa  was 
much  with  her,  for  the  Lady  Blanche  had  gone 
away  and  left  her  daughter,  willing  that  she 
should  keep  the  favor  of  the  court.     Florian 


142  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

looked  with  all  the  longing  of  a  convalescent 
for  the  daily  appearance  of  the  small,  bright 
head  between  the  parted  silks  of  his  couch,  and 
he  found  her  blush  and  smile  a  medicine  in 
themselves.  He  rose  up  before  long  quite 
whole  and  well,  and  under  Melissa's  guidance 
learned  to  help  those  of  his  fellow-warriors  who 
were  still  bedridden.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
two  hearts  so  inclined  to  each  other,  and  so 
employed,  should  close  in  love? 

But  though  Blanche  had  sworn  that  after 
their  night  alone  in  the  open  fields  Psyche  must 
needs  wed  Cyril  to  keep  her  own  good  name, 
yet  the  match  did  not  prosper.  Cyril  plied  her 
with  references  to  the  babe  restored  by  him,  and 
wooed  her  valiantly;  but  she  feared  to  incense 
the  Head  and  would  not  yield.  But  one  day 
Ida  came  upon  them  as  CjrW  pleaded  his  cause, 
and,  though  her  face  flushed  a  little,  she  passed 
on  and  said  nothing ;  and  from  that  time  they 
tacitly  understood  each  other,  and  were  as  sat- 
isfied as  if  the  troth  had  been  duly  plighted. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  pairs  who  were 
caught  in  the  amorous  entanglement.  Love 
seemed  to  hold  high  carnival  in  the  sacred  halls, 
and  let  fly  his  arrows  at  random  among  men 
and  maids,  until  every  marble  niche  was  filled 
with  a  wooing  couple. 

King  Gama  and  Ida's  brothers  did  not  cease 


The  Princess.  143 

to  press  the  Prince's  claim,  nor  did  his  father, 
who  was  now  fully  reconciled  to  her,  fail  to  use 
constant  persuasion  ;  but  she  was  still  obdurate, 
notwithstanding  that  she  often  sat  long  by  the 
Prince's  bedside  in  her  daily  mission  of  healing. 
Sometimes,  too,  he  even  caught  her  hand  in  his 
wild  delirium,  and  after  gripping  it  hard,  he  would 
fling  it  off,  and  shriek,  "  You  are  not  Ida !"  Then 
he  would  clasp  it  once  again,  and  call  her  lov- 
ingly his  Ida,  and  heap  caressing  names  upon 
her,  though  he  really  knew  not  that  it  was  Ida 
whom  he  addressed. 

She  often  dreaded,  as  she  watched  his  wild 
gestures  and  listened  to  his  raving,  that  he 
would  lose  his  mind  ;  and  the  fear  sometimes 
forced  itself  upon  her,  in  spite  of  her  assumed 
indifference,  that  he  might  even  die.  These 
feelings,  ebbing  and  flowing  day  by  day,  broke 
gradually,  but  all  unconsciously,  the  barriers  of 
her  grief  and  coldness  ;  and  these,  and  the  sights 
and  sounds  about  her,  the  share  in  others'  woe, 
the  weary  attendance,  and  glimpses  of  the  hap- 
piness of  new-found  lovers,  brought  to  her  an 
unwonted  tenderness  and  then  an  awakening 
love  for  him  who  lay  at  her  side. 

At  last  the  Prince  awoke  sane  and  whole,  but 
pitifully  weak.  It  was  in  the  evening,  and  he 
stared  dismayed  at  the  pictured  walls,  not  real- 
izing where  he  was.    The  flgures  looked  to  him 


144  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

like  a  hollow  show  of  life ;  but  so,  likewise,  did 
Ida,  who  sat  by  his  bedside  with  her  palms 
pressed  close  together  and  a  dew  of  tears  in 
her  eyes.  He  moved,  then  sighed  lightly.  A 
touch  came  at  his  wrist,  and  a  tear  fell  upon 
his  hand ;  then  he,  too,  wept  for  very  languor 
and  self-pity,  and,  with  what  strength  he  had, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her,  and  whispered, — 

"  If  you  be  what  I  think  you,  only  some  sweet 
dream,  would  you  could  fulfil  yourself  and  be 
that  Ida  whom  I  knew !  I  ask  you  nothing. 
Only,  if  you  be  a  dream,  Sweet  Dream,  be  per- 
fect. I  shall  die  to-night.  Stoop  down,  then, 
and  seem  to  kiss  me  once  before  I  die." 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 
a  trance.  She  turned  and  paused,  and  then 
stooped  down  and  touched  his  lips  with  hers. 
The  Prince  gave  a  passionate  cry,  and  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  He  felt  that  his  spirit  had 
united  with  Ida's  in  that  one  brief  kiss.  Then 
he  fell  back,  and  she  rose  from  his  embrace 
glowing  all  over  with  noble  shame.  Her  falser 
self  had  slipped  fi'om  her  like  a  discarded  robe, 
and  left  what  remained  the  lovelier  for  what 
had  passed  away.  She  rose,  now,  and  glided 
forth  without  a  single  glance  behind  her,  and 
the  Prince  sank  back  and  slept  unbrokenly,  with 
happy  dreams  of  love  and  the  life  that  was  to 
be. 


\\'X:\?:c^vA  i'AV'i&v. 


DANTE    GABRIEL    KOSSETTI. 


ROSE   MARY. 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTl. 


I.— O         k  13 


ROSE  MARY. 


I. 

"  Come  hither,  Mary  mine.  Leave  the  garden- 
close  now,  and  sit  by  me.  The  sun  is  sinking,  and 
the  stars  are  beginning  to  twinkle.  Come,  you 
shall  read  them  once  more  in  the  beryl-stone." 

Saying  this,  the  aged  dame,  Eose  Mary's 
mother,  unbound  her  girdle  and  drew  forth 
from  the  folds  of  her  robe  a  sphere  of  trans- 
parent stone,  shot  through  with  shadows  and 
touched  with  hovering  rainbow  tints.  It  was,  in 
truth,  a  miniature  world,  reflecting  in  its  glassy 
depths  whatever  of  the  great  world  about  came 
within  the  circle  of  its  radiance.  But  to  one 
pure  enough  to  see  it  showed  more  than  this, 
for  it  held  in  its  glowing  circumference  the 
unknown  as  well  as  the  known;  the  whole 
future,  as  well  as  the  passing  hour. 

For  a  thousand  years,  so  went  the  tale,  this 
globe  of  beryl  had  lain  in  the  ocean  with  a 
treasure  wrecked  from  a  Thessalian  bark.  It 
had  cost  a  human  life  to  bring  it  back  to  earth, 
and  thus  sanctified  it  gained  magical  properties ; 

147 


148  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

so  that  now,  as  Eose  Mary's  lady  mother  held  it 
out  to  her,  it  had  a  wondrous  light  about  it  and 
shone  very  strangely  through  the  thick  and 
twilit  leaves  of  the  garden. 

"  Come,"  she  repeated, "  you  may  read  the  stars 
if  you  will,  or  follow  your  knight  Sir  James  of 
Heronhaye  as  he  rides  to  Holy  Cross  to-morrow." 
At  this  name  Eose  Mary  turned  from  her 
flowers  and  hurried  into  the  chamber  where  her 
mother  sat. 

"  May  I  see  him  truly,  mother  ?"  she  said,  and 
knelt  at  the  lady's  side  with  eager  hands 
stretched  out  for  the  stone. 

But  her  mother's  face  saddened  as  she  put 
back  her  fair  daughter's  dark  locks  and  looked 
caressingly  into  her  face. 

"  Yes,  truly,  my  child,"  she  said.  "  He  rides 
away  to  do  penance  before  he  takes  you  to  the 
altar ;  but  there  is  evil  news  to  tell.  Be  strong 
now,  and  here  is  our  help."  And  she  pointed  to 
the  beryl  where  it  lay  in  her  lap. 

"  Now  listen,"  she  resumed.  "  On  the  road  Sir 
James  must  take  there  is  an  ambush  waiting  to 
attack  him ;  but  he  will  go  in  spite  of  all  dan- 
ger, and  will  go  alone.  No  one  knows  where 
the  foe  really  lurks,  but  here  in  the  beryl  you 
may  read  all  things." 

Again  Eose  Mary  reached  for  the  stone ;  but 
her  mother  restrained  her. 


Rose  Mary.  149 

"  No,  not  yet.  Listen  !  All  last  night  I  made 
sacrifice  and  strove  in  prayer  at  the  altar.  The 
flame  paled  in  the  sunrise,  and  I  performed  every 
needful  rite.  Now,  nothing  is  lacking  but  the 
eyes  of  a  pure  and  innocent  soul.  Look,  then, 
my  Eose,  and  read  his  fate !" 

"But,  mother,  if  I  should  not  see?" 

"  No,  no ;  uncover  your  face,  child.  Love  will 
teach  you  to  see  as  you  have  always  seen." 

Eose  Mary's  cheeks  grew  deadly  pale  as  her 
gray  eyes  sought  the  beryl-stone.  She  leaned 
over  her  mother's  lap  and  passionately  stretched 
her  throat,  sighing  from  her  very  soul,  as  she 
said,  "  I  see !"  Then  they  were  both  aware  of  a 
faint  music  in  the  chamber,  but  there  was  no 
time  to  think  upon  the  marvel,  though  it  deli- 
ciously  lulled  their  straining  senses. 

The  lady  held  the  sphere  upon  her  knee. 

"Lean  this  way  and  speak  low,"  she  said, 
"  and  speak  of  nothing  but  what  you  see." 

Eose  Mary  gazed  upon  the  stone  with  fixed 
and  staring  eyes  : 

"  I  see  a  man  with  a  great  broom  sweeping 
away  the  dust." 

"  Yes,  that  is  always  first.  But  now  look  well. 
What  comes  next  ?" 

'•  I  see  two  roads  stretching  away  and  part- 
ing in  a  waste  country.  Deep  glens  and  tall 
ridges  lie  along  their  sides,  and  a  hill  walls  in 

13* 


150  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  valley.     One  road   follows  the  brook,  and 
the  other  goes  across  the  moor." 

"  Both  go  to  Holy  Cross,  daughter.  But 
what  of  the  valley  road?  He  must  go  that 
way." 

"  It  runs  past  me  like  the  turning  leaves  of  a 
book." 

"  Look  everywhere  for  a  spear.  They  will 
lie  close  till  he  approaches." 

"  The  stream  has  spread  out  to  a  river,  with 
stiff  blue  reeds  and  bare  banks." 

"  Is  there  any  roof  near  to  shelter  a  hidden 
band?" 

"  Yes ;  on  the  farther  bank  there  is  a  single 
one,  and  a  herdsman  unyokes  his  team  there  in 
the  twilight." 

"  Keep  watch  by  the  water's  edge;  some  boat 
may  lurk  there." 

"  One  has  just  slid  out  from  the  winding  shore, 
but  a  peasant  woman  is  at  the  oars  and  a  child 

is  steering.    But,  there !  something  sparkled 

No,  it  was  only  a  lapwing." 

Then  Rose  Mary,  growing  weary  of  the  search 
and  succumbing  to  the  intense  strain  of  eye  and 
nerve,  drew  back  and  cried, — 

"  It  is  all  in  vain  I  I  have  missed  them,  and 
they  will  kill  him,  they  will  kill  him  !" 

"  For  dear  love's  sake  speak  low,"  said  the 
mother. 


Rose  Mary.  151 

"  My  eyes  are  strained  to  the  goal,  but,  oh, 
the  voice  within  me!"  cried  Eose  Mary,  in 
lowered  tones. 

"  Hush,  sweet,  hush.  Be  calm  and  search  the 
stone,"  whispered  the  lady  again. 

"  I  see  two  old  and  broken  floodgates,"  re- 
sumed Eose  Mary.  "  Grasses  wave  along  the 
weir,  but  the  bridge  still  leads  to  the  break- 
water. And  mother!"  she  almost  shrieked  in 
her  dread,  and  clung  close  to  her  mother's  knee, 
crouching  low  while  her  hair  fell  across  her 
eyes,  then  she  whispered,  fearfully,  "  The  spears 
are  there !" 

The  lady  stooped  and  cleared  the  locks  from 
her  daughter's  face.  "  So  much  yet  to  see,  and 
she  has  swooned,"  she  wailed;  then,  smooth- 
ing the  girl's  fair  brow,  she  lifted  her  up. 
"  Look,  look,  sweet !"  she  pleaded.  "  An  image 
comes  but  once  to  the  beryl.  Do  you  see  the 
same  place  ?" 

Eose  Mary  wearily  opened  her  eyes  and 
gazed  again  into  the  stone. 

"  I  see  eight  men,"  she  languidly  murmured. 
"  The  weir  is  covered  with  a  wild  growth,  and 
they  are  hidden  by  the  water-gate.  They  lie 
about  as  if  they  had  a  long  while  to  stay.  The 
chief's  lance  has  a  blazoned  scroll.  He  seems 
some  lord.  I  cannot  trace  the  blazon.  Yes, 
there,  now — I  can  see  the  field  of  blue  and  the 


152  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

spurs  and  merlins  in  pairs.  It  is  the  Warden 
of  Holycldugh." 

"  God  be  thanked !"  said  the  mother.  "  AVe 
know  now.  It  is  your  good  knight's  mortal 
enemy.  Last  Shrovetide,  in  the  tourney,  he 
strove  to  take  his  life  by  treason,  and  now  he 
tries,  again.  So,  my  lord,"  she  continued,  bitterly, 
"  we  know  you  now.  You  will  watch  till  morn- 
ing? June's  a  fair  month,  and  the  moon  is 
full.  St.  Judas  send  you  a  merry  night  at 
Warisweir." 

Then  she  bent  low  again  over  her  daughter, 
who  had  sunk  across  her  knees. 

"  Now,  sweet,"  she  said,  "  only  one  more  look 
and  you  may  lie  soft  in  bed.  We  know  what 
perils  are  in  the  valley.  Now  look  over  the 
hills  and  see  if  the  road  is  free  there  " 

Rose  Mary  reached  up  and  pressed  her  cheek 
against  her  mother's,  and  she  almost  smiled,  but 
said  nothing.  Then  she  turned  again  to  the 
shadowy  glass. 

"  The  broom  again,"  she  began.  "  I  stand  once 
more  where  the  roads  part.  The  hill-side  is 
clear,  but  the  river  lies  like  a  thread  in  the  val- 
ley. The  waste  land  runs  by  very  swiftly,  and 
I  see  nothing  but  heath  and  sky.  There's  not  a 
break  for  a  spear  to  hide  in ;  nothing,  nothing 
to  fear." 

She  gazed  on  intently  for  some  time  without 


Mose  Mary.  153 

speaking,  but  again  she  began :  "  Over  there 
rise  the  heights  of  Holycleugh.  Where  the 
road  leads  up  to  the  castle  there  are  seven  wide 
and  deep  clefts.  I  can  see  into  six,  but  the 
seventh  is  brimmed  with  mist.  If  there  was 
anything  there  I  could  not  see  it." 

"  Little  hope,  my  girl,  for  a  helm  to  be  hidden 
in  the  moorland  mists.  They  melt  with  every 
wind." 

"  The  road  winds  and  winds,"  resumed  Eose 
Mary,  "  and  the  great  walls  come  nearer  and 
nearer." 

"  Enough,"  said  her  mother,  and  she  took  the 
bending  head  to  her  bosom.  "  Eest,  poor  head," 
she  lovingly  murmured.  "  We  are  done  now, 
and  know  all  that  is  needed." 

Then,  as  she  wrapped  the  beryl-stone  in  her 
robe  again,  she  looked  fondly  at  it,  and  watched 
the  flickering  shadows  course  through  its  glassy 
depths  as  if  it  still  pulsed  with  the  vibrations 
of  the  spell. 

As  it  slid  into  its  silken  case,  a  strange  music 
drifted  once  more  across  the  room  and  died 
away  like  a  light  laughter. 

But  Eose  Mary  had  heard  nothing  of  it.  She 
lay  in  a  deep  slumber  upon  her  mother's  knee, 
who  presently  arose  and  lifted  her  tenderly  into 
the  chair,  where  she  sank  with  a  broken  moan 
into  heavy  sleep. 


154  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Then  her  mother  went  out  to  bear  the  news 
to  Sir  James  of  Heronhaye  and  warn  him  of 
his  danger. 

Eose  Mary  slept  long  and  soundly,  but  at  last 
she  raised  her  head  and  rose  up  bewildered. 
She  searched  her  brain  as  for  something  that 
had  vanished,  and  then  clasped  her  brows,  as  a 
sudden  burst  of  remembrance  came  upon  her. 
She  knelt  and  lifted  her  eyes  in  awe,  and  gave 
a  long,  sweet  sigh  : 

"  Thank  God  that  I  saw !" 

But  Eose  Mary's  mother,  after  she  had  spoken 
with  the  knight,  climbed  a  secret  stairway  and 
knelt  at  a  carven  altar,  where  she  laid,  at  last, 
the  precious  beryl.  It  was  engraved  with  mystic 
characters  in  a  dead  tongue,  which  a  priest  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  had  interpreted  to  her  lord,  who 
had  brought  it  home  to  her  from  the  crusades 
as  a  curious  gift. 

As  she  turned  away  from  the  altar  where  it 
reposed  she  murmured  the  words  of  its  charm. 
"  None  sees  here  but  the  pure,"  and  then,  with 
all  a  mother's  fondness  in  her  voice,  "And  what 
rose  in  Mary's  bower  is  purer  than  my  own 
sweet  Eose  Mary  ?" 

II. 

The  days  passed  slowly  in  Eose  Mary's  bower, 
for  she  was  anxious  to  hear  from  her  wandering 


Rose  Mary.  155 

knight.  He  had  set  out  gravely  enough  on  his 
holy  errand,  but  he  laughed  a  defiance  at  his 
enemies  as  he  bade  her  adieu.  Yet  she  was 
disquieted  by  his  long  absence,  and  feared  the 
warning  in  the  beryl  might  have  been  in  vain. 
On  the  third  day,  as  she  sat  musing  in  her 
chamber,  her  mother  came  up  to  her  and  touched 
her  with  a  caress  which  had  so  much  of  pity  in 
it  that  she  was  startled  to  her  feet. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  cried.  "Is  he 
wounded  ?  Is  he  here  ?"  And  she  started  to- 
wards the  stair. 

Her  mother  detained  her  and  drew  her  down 
to  the  stone  seat  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  my  Eose,"  said  her  mother,  "  what  shall 
be  done  with  the  rose  which  Mary  weeps  on  ? 
what  shall  be  done  with  the  cankered  flower  ?" 
"  Let  it  fall  from  the  tree,  mother,  and  wait 
for  the  night.  Let  it  hide  its  shame  before  the 
new  day  comes."  And  the  girl  hid  her  fair  face 
with  passionate  tears  in  her  mother's  lap. 

The  lady  rose  then  and  softly  lifted  her  child 
to  her  side.  With  a  supporting  arm  around 
her  she  led  her  drooping  into  the  midst  of  the 
room. 

"  Come,  my  heart,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  time  for  us 
to  go.  This  is  the  sad  hour  foretold  in  the 
troubled  nights.  Yet  keep  in  good  cheer,  for 
you  have  a  mate  in  your  shame  who  will  not 


156  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

leave  you.  There  will  be  peace  at  last,  if  we 
love  each  other." 

But  the  fair  girl  cried  piteously  upon  her 
knight. 

"  'Twas  for  love  alone,"  she  said,  "  and  the  re- 
pentant heart  has  made  bitter  atonement.  'Tis 
only  three  days  to  wait,  mother,  and  he  returns 
to  me.  Where  may  I  go  till  he  brings  me  back 
a  bride  ?  for  they  will  all  know  me  for  the  thing 
I  am." 

Then  the  pent-up  tears  came  welling  from  the 
lady's  eyes,  and  both  stood  weeping  together. 

"  Oh,  daughter,"  she  said  amid  her  sobs,  "  how 
could  you  deceive  me  ?  Your  heart  held  fast  its 
secret  and  I  knew  nothing." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Eose  Mary,  "  how  came  you 
to  know,  mother  ?  Did  the  beryl  read  you  my 
heart  ?" 

"  The  beryl  has  no  voice  for  me,"  her  mother 
answered  ;  "  but  it  told  you  a  false  tale,  because 
none  but  the  pure  may  read  the  truth." 

Her  hand  lay  close  to  Eose  Mary's  heart,  and 
she  could  feel  its  sudden  bound  of  fear. 

"Mother!"  she  cried,  "but  still  I  saw." 

"  Yet  why  did  you  keep  your  heart  hidden 
from  me  ?  for  I  told  you  that  sin  must  cast  out 
the  spirits  of  grace  from  the  stone.  Oh,  my 
Eose,  it  veils  the  truth  to  such  as  do  not  ques- 
tion with  sinless  hearts !" 


Hose  Mary.  157 

Rose  Mary  sat  like  a  stone  and  said  not  a 
word,  though  her  mother  tried  to  clasp  her  in 
a  close  embrace  to  avoid  looking  in  her  despair- 
ing eyes. 

Then,  with  one  great  sob,  the  daughter  asked, 
pleadingly,  "  Where  is  he?" 

"He  is  here,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  trembling 
voice.  "  His  horse  came  riderless  this  morning, 
and  now  he  lies  within." 

Rose  Mary  gave  a  wild  cry  and  fell  into  her 
mother's  arms. 

"  The  cloud  on  the  hills  by  Holycleugh,  daugh- 
ter," she  said, — "  it  was  there  they  lurked,  not 
in  the  vale  :  that  was  the  beryl's  deception. 
They  brought  him  home  from  the  hill-side  to- 
day." 

Rose  Mary  sprang  up  as  if  some  mortal  agony 
had  shot  through  her.  She  shrieked  once,  and 
then,  overcome,  sank  down  to  the  ground.  Her 
face  lay  pallid  white  on  her  dark  hair,  and  she 
looked  so  far  spent  that  her  mother  leaned  down 
and  listened  at  her  heart.  Then  she  wildly 
kissed  her  and  called  her  name,  but  there  was 
no  response ;  and  she  rose  quickly,  slid  back  a 
secret  door  in  the  wall,  and  ascended  the  stair 
within. 

Above,  where  the  altar  was,  a  little  fountain 
played,  and  she  filled  a  flask  with  water  and 
hurried  back  to  Rose  Mary,  sprinkling  her  breast 

14 


158  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  brow.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  color  in 
her  cheeks,  nor  a  perceptible  breath  from  her 
lips,  and  yet  something  seemed  to  tell  that  life 
was  still  there. 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  lady,  "the  body  does  not 
die  with  the  heart."  And  she  wrung  her  hands 
and  hid  her  face,  wondering  how  she  could  ever 
meet  again  the  poor  girl's  woful  eyes.  Then 
she  began  to  think  of  calling  help,  and  she  re- 
membered the  priest  who  prayed  there  by  the 
dead  man's  side.  She  rose  and  sped  down  all 
the  winding  stairs  to  the  castle  hall.  As  she 
passed  the  loopholes  in  the  thick  walls,  she 
looked  out  upon  the  long-known  valley  and  the 
familiar  woods  and  brooks,  but  they  seemed 
to  her  only  like  the  threads  of  some  broken 
dream. 

The  hall  was  full  of  the  retainers  of  the  castle 
when  she  entered.  The  women  wept  and  the 
men  were  broodingly  silent.  As  the  lady  crossed 
the  rush-covered  floor  the  throng  fell  back, 
murmuring,  about  the  open  door-ways.  A 
strange  shadow  seemed  to  hang  upon  every- 
thing, for  the  slain  knight  lay  there  in  the 
midst  of  the  hall,  on  the  ingle-bench. 

A  priest  who  had  passed  by  Holycleugh  early 
in  the  day  had  brought  the  tidings,  and  he  had 
guided  back  to  the  place  those  who  had  brought 
the  bier;  but  since  the  houi'  of  his  return  he 


Rose  Mary.  159 

had  knelt  in  prayer  by  the  knight's  side.  Word 
had  gone  also  to  his  own  castle  that  Sir  James 
of  Heronhaye  was  slain,  and  the  spears  would 
doubtless  gather  soon  to  track  down  the  foej 
but,  for  the  time,  all  was  mourning  and  silence. 
As  the  lady's  step  came  near,  the  priest  looked  up. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  this  surely  is  a  grievous 
thing;  but  my  daughter, — she  lies  above  in  a 
swoon.  Go  to  the  topmost  chamber  as  you 
mount  the  stairs.  Let  your  words,  not  mine, 
be  the  first  she  hears  when  she  awakens.  Go 
quickly,  and  I  will  come  in  a  little  while.'* 
Then  she  knelt  on  the  hearth,  motioning  every 
one  away  from  the  threshold,  and  gazed  alone  in 
the  dead  man's  face. 

The  fight  for  life  had  been  desperate,  for  it 
showed  still  in  the  clinched  lips  and  hard-set 
teeth;  nor  had  the  wrath  quite  passed  away 
from  the  bent  brow  and  stern  eyes.  The  bla- 
zoned coat  was  rent  in  the  golden  field  across 
his  breast,  and  in  his  hand  he  yet  held  the  hilt 
of  his  shivered  sword. 

The  lady  seemed  not  to  heed  the  body,  but 
spoke  fondly  to  the  departed  soul.  There  was  a 
light  of  pity  and  love  in  her  steadfast  eyes  that 
seemed  to  render  them  capable  of  seeing  the 
invisible. 

"  By  your  death  I  have  learnt  of  your  sinful 
deed,  Sir  James  of  Heronhaye.    You  have  done 


160  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

me  and  mine  a  great  wrong,  and  God  has  sent 
you  this  doom  for  a  lesson.  It  was  ordained 
you  were  not  to  gain  your  shrift  in  life ;  but 
may  death  shrive  your  soul  and  purify  you. 
Ah,  I  know  how  well  you  loved  her!" 

But  before  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his  brow, 
as  she  started  to  do,  she  saw  a  little  packet  half 
hid  where  his  mail-coat  was  broken  at  the  breast. 
It  lay  on  his  open  bosom  beneath  the  surcoat. 
A  heavy  clot  hung  round  it,  and  a  faintness 
came  over  her  as  she  drew  it  away.  The  billet 
was  steeped  in  the  blood  from  his  heart,  and  fast 
to  it  was  glued  an  embroidered  fragment  of  his 
blazon. 

She  gazed  long  on  the  thing  with  a  pitying 
look.  "Alas!  alas!  some  pledge  of  dear  Eose 
Mary's,"  she  murmured. 

Then  she  opened  it  carefully.  The  blood  was 
stiff  upon  it,  and  it  would  scarcely  come  apart. 
She  found  only  a  folded  paper,  but  around  it 
was  wound  a  long  tress  of  golden  hair. 

As  she  turned  the  paper  over,  she  dimly  saw 
the  dark  face  above  in  its  swoon.  It  was  as  if  a 
snake  had  crept  near  and  stung  her  daughter 
to  death.  With  a  shaking  hand  she  loosed  the 
thread  of  bright  hair,  and  then  undid  the  folded 
paper ;  and  that,  too,  trembled  in  her  hold  so 
that  she  could  scarce  read  or  understand  its 
quivering  lines. 


Rose  Mary.  161 

"  My  heart's  sweet  lord,"  it  said,  "  at  Holy 
Cross,  in  eight  days,  I  seek  my  shrift,  and  there 
I  would  meet  you,  if  you  will,  on  the  like  errand. 
At  the  same  time  my  brother  rides  from  Holy- 
cleugh  and  will  be  long  absent.  We  can  be  safe 
then,  and  our  love  will  be  undistui'bed.  Until 
we  meet  I  send  you  a  tress  for  remembrance 
wound  around  these  words ;  so,  eight  days 
hence,  may  our  loves  be  twined  together,  is  the 
wish  of  my  lord's  poor  lady,  Jocelind." 

Eose  Mary's  mother  read  the  missive  twice 
over  with  a  distraught  and  wandering  mind. 
She  could  not  realize  its  meaning.  But  at  last 
it  broke  in  upon  her.  Her  head  sunk  low  down 
upon  her  hands,  and  she  cried,  "  Oh,  God !  the 
sister  of  the  Warden  of  Holycleugh !" 

She  rose  upright  then,  with  a  long  moan, 
and  stared  in  the  dead  Knight's  face.  Had  it 
actually  lived  ?  She  could  scarce  tell.  It  was  a 
mask  for  the  blackness  of  guilt. 

She  raised  high  up  the  golden  tress  of  hair 
and  struck  the  cold  lips  with  it,  then  let  it  rest 
upon  them. 

"  Here's  gold  to  pay  your  way  to  Satan,"  she 
said,  sternly.  "  Your  treason  has  justly  found  its 
goal !" 

She  turned,  half  conscious  of  a  voice  that 
called  her,  and  looked  upward.  On  a  row  of 
fair  and  lofty  columns  a  high  court  ran  around 
l.—l  14* 


162  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  castle  hall,  and  from  there  the  priest  spoke 
to  her. 

"  I  have  looked  for  your  child  everywhere, 
but  she  cannot  be  found." 

"  Fear  nothing,"  she  replied ;  "  she  is  not  far 
away.  But  come  with  nae,  and  we  will  look  for 
her." 

She  reached  the  stair  and  tottered  upward. 

"  Death's  face,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  is 
hard  to  look  upon,  but,  oh.  Rose  Mary,  how 
shall  I  look  into  your  living  face  ?" 

III. 

Rose  Mary  lay  for  a  long  time  unconscious  in 
her  chamber  while  her  mother  sought  the  priest 
below ;  but  at  last  she  emerged  from  the  swoon, 
and  a  dawn  of  light  seemed  to  break  upon  her 
bewildered  eyes.  She  looked  around  her,  dazed 
at  the  sight  of  familiar  things,  and  her  lips  were 
hard  and  dry.  She  remembered  what  had  hap- 
pened only  as  one  remembers  a  vague  and 
troubled  dream ;  but  her  mother's  and  her 
lover's  names  came  to  her  lips,  and  she  uttered 
them  with  a  dread  she  could  not  explain. 

Breathing  heavily  with  the  exertion,  she  got 
up  from  the  floor  and  dragged  herself  to  the 
secret  panel,  which  still  stood  open  as  her  mother 
had  unconsciously  left  it.  She  went  through 
the  opening,  then  closed  the  door  and  stood  in 


Bose  Mary.  163 

the  dark  upon  the  stone  stairway.  But  her 
eyes  were  more  at  ease  in  the  shadow,  and  she 
mounted  without  difficulty.  She  had  never 
known  of  this  secret  stairway,  but  she  was  not 
greatly  surprised  at  its  existence,  as  all  wavs 
Avere  alike  strange  to  her  now.  Once  she  thought 
she  heard  her  name  called  from  some  inner 
place,  and  she  paused  to  listen,  but  could  not 
tell  where  the  sound  came  from.  A  faint  ray 
of  light  fell  down  the  dark  stairway  at  her  feet, 
and  this  guided  her  at  last  into  the  chamber 
where  the  altar  was. 

There  was  no  change  in  her  tace  as  she  leaned 
an  instant  against  the  open  door-way  and  then 
passed  on  to  the  pillar  within.  The  room  had 
a  dimly-lit  dome,  overhung  by  a  veil,  at  the  pole- 
points  of  which  were  symbols  of  the  elements  : 
air,  water,  fire,  and  earth.  On  the  north  side 
there  was  pictured  a  running  fountain,  at  the 
south  a  red  fruit-tree  :  the  eastern  point  had  a 
lamp  burning  brightly,  and  to  the  west  there 
was  a  crystal  casket  holding  within  it  a  cloud. 
The  painted  walls  symbolized  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  Time,  who  held  in  his  hands  the  key  of  his 
hoards  and  his  all-conquering  wheel. 

Eose  Mary  paid  little  heed  to  all  this  ;  but 
she  stepped  forward  presently  with  a  weary 
face,  and  lit\ed  the  altar-veil  aside.  The  altar 
was  in   the  form  of  the  coiling  serpent  which 


164  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

old  lore  has  placed  deep  in  the  earth's  heart 
awaiting  the  final  Yoice.  An  open  hook  lay 
spread  upon  the  altar,  and  some  tapers  burned 
about  it.  But  between  the  sculptured  wings 
of  a  strange  beast  Rose  Mary  saw  the  beryl- 
stone. 

The  dread  sight  of  this  talisman  brought  back 
to  her  all  the  woful  past.  The  hours  and  min- 
utes seemed  to  whirr  by  her  in  a  deafening 
swarm,  and  in  the  tumult  the  forms  of  death 
and  sorrow  and  shame  trod  near  her.  She 
saw  them  circle  through  the  stone  with  mock- 
ing faces,  and  then  the  mystic  lights  faded,  and 
once  again  she  awakened  into  full  consciousness 
with  a  pitiful  cry. 

She  took  three  slow  steps  through  the  altar 
gate,  and  drew  up  her  body  straight  and 
tall.  The  sinews  of  her  arms  stood  forth  in 
hardened  lines,  and  her  face  was  deadly  white 
amid  her  dark  hair.  She  was  possessed  with 
a  passionate  hatred  of  the  thing  which  lay 
shining  there  before  her. 

A  dinted  helm  and  sword  hung  above  the 
altar,  for  her  father  had  won  by  their  valiant 
use  the  magic  gift  which  he  had  brought  back 
from  Palestine. 

Eose  Mary  moved  across  and  reached  down 
her  father's  sword,  but  she  never  took  her  eyes 
from  the  beryl,  and  still  gazing  she  spoke  to  it : 


Bose  Mary.  165 

"  O  three  times  accurst,  ye  who  inhabit  this 
stone !  Ye  came  in  by  the  might  of  a  great 
guilt,  but  a  weak  sinner's  hand  will  drive  you 
out  to-day.  A  clear  voice  has  told  me  this,  and 
that  I  shall  expire  with  you.  Oh,  may  God 
save  my  parting  soul!" 

Then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  with 
tender  words  besought  her  lover  to  meet  her 
when  she  had  wrought  them  both  forgiveness 
by  the  destruction  of  the  fatal  sphere.  Her 
eyes  grew  soft  as  she  spoke,  and  a  smile  half 
trembled  on  her  lips;  but  the  frown  of  hate 
came  back  as  she  glanced  again  at  the  beryl, 
and  she  swung  aloft  with  two  hands  the  heavy 
sword. 

Then  she  took  three  backward  steps. 

"For  your  sake,  love,  and  for  God's!"  she 
exclaimed,  and  the  blade  flashed  and  fell  upon 
the  beryl-stone  and  clove  it  to  the  heart. 

A  sound  like  thunder  roared  through  the 
room  as  the  deed  was  done,  and  the  echoes 
reverberated  far  away  in  awful  vibrations.  But 
when  all  was  still  again,  the  beryl  lay  broken 
in  two,  the  veil  above  was  rent  away  from  the 
dome,  and  the  chamber  was  riven  open  to  the 
sky. 

Eose  Mary  lay  on  the  ground,  dead.  But  no 
trace  of  the  convulsion  had  touched  her  beauty. 
She  seemed  to  rest,  rather,  in  a  gracious  sleep ; 


166  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  over  her  head  she  still  held  fast  the  sword 
with  which  she  had  triumphed. 

Then  a  clear  voice  said  in  the  room, — 
"  Behold  the  end !  Come  thou  to  me  for  thy 
bitter  love's  sake.  By  a  sweet  path  thou  shalt 
journey,  and  I  will  lead  thee  unto  rest.  Thy  sin 
withheld  me  from  the  talisman,  but  thou  hast 
won  thy  way  to  my  home  who  hast  now  cast 
forth  from  it  my  foes." 


THP  ^r 


WILL 


^-VA'AOU   \IiKvAAVH 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


THE  LOVERS  OF  GUDRUN. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


THE  LOVERS  OF  GUDRUN. 


I. 

On  the  gray  slopes  of  a  valley  of  Iceland 
near  the  northern  sea  lay  Eathstead,  and  across 
seven  miles  of  open  land  rose  the  spreading 
roofs  of  Herdholt.  There  dwelt  in  these  fair 
halls  two  noble  families  that  were  friends,  and 
between  their  boundaries  the  broad  valley  was 
paven  with  green  pastures,  where  browsed  many 
herds  of  sheep  and  cattle,  the  possession  of  the 
lords  of  either  hall. 

In  Herdholt  lived  Olaf  the  Peacock,  who  took 
to  wife  Thorgerd,  and  they  had  five  sons,  who 
were  lithe  and  of  fair  promise,  and  two  daugh- 
ters ;  and  Bodli,  called  the  son  of  Olaf 's  brother, 
also  dwelt  with  them. 

But  Bathstead  was  the  home  of  Oswif,  whose 
wife,  Thordis,  bore  to  him  five  sons,  stout  and 
lusty  lads,  but  with  little  wisdom,  and  a  sole 
daughter,  Gudrun  by  name,  who  grew  by  her 
father's  hearthside  into  the  spring-time  of  a 
perfect  womanhood. 

Now,  one  day  as  Gudrun  sat  among  the  spin- 
H  15  169 


170  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ning- women  in  her  bower  at  Bathstead  she 
heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  drawing  swiftly  near, 
and  started  up  to  see  who  came. 

"  That  must  be  Guest,"  she  said,  "  for  this  is 
the  day  he  tarries  with  us  in  Bathstead."  And 
she  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  stood 
between  the  posts  looking  down  towards  the  dis- 
tant sea.  She  saw  below  her  on  the  slopes  a 
throng  of  gay  riders  who  approached  at  a  can- 
ter, and  she  watched  them  eagerly  with  one 
slender  hand  curved  for  shade  above  her  eyes. 

That  year  Gudrun  had  just  come  to  her  full 
height.  She  was  slim  and  of  a  girlish  figure, 
yet  she  could  never  hope  to  be  fairer.  She  had 
golden  hair  which  reached  nearly  to  her  knee, 
and  white  hands  and  a  smooth  brow  safe  from 
the  lightest  touch  of  time.  Her  lips  were  crossed 
now  and  then  by  a  smile  which  betokened  a 
coming  danger  to  men,  and  her  eyes  were  bluer 
than  gray,  but  very  sweet  in  maidenly  direct- 
ness. She  was  clad  in  a  lordlyraiment  made 
of  rich  stuffs  from  the  South,  and  as  she  stood 
there  in  the  door-way  the  rough  world  about 
her  seemed  by  contrast  to  be  but  a  rude  heap 
cast  up  by  the  waves. 

But  the  riders  drew  rein  now  before  Oswif 's 
hall.  There  were  twelve  in  the  company,  and 
Gudrun  stepped  out  across  the  grass  to  meet 
them. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  171 

"  Welcome,  Guest  the  Wise !"  she  said  to 
the  leader,  a  white-haired  and  venerable  man, 
who  wore  a  red  suit."  My  father  is  away  at 
his  fishing,  but  he  bids  me  pray  you  not  to 
go  by  us,  but  bide  here  awhile.  He  says  you 
and  he,  in  the  hall,  are  two  wise  men  together 
who  can  talk  cunningly  about  the  ways  of 
mankind." 

Guest  laughed  and  leapt  down  from  his 
horse. 

"  Fair  words  from  fair  lips,"  said  he,  "  and  a 
goodly  place  to  rest  at ;  but  I  must  get  on  to 
Thickwood  to-night  to  see  my  kinsman  Armod. 
Yet,  I'll  stay  an  hour,  and  you  and  I  will  talk 
awhile." 

Then  he  took  her  hand,  and  she  led  him  into 
the  hall,  and  all  his  fellow-riders  got  down  from 
their  horses  and  followed  them,  with  a  great 
clattering,  through  the  porch ;  and  once  within, 
they  had  a  plentiful  repast  and  much  good  wine. 

But  amid  the  noise  of  drinking-horns  and  the 
boisterous  laughter  Gudrun  spoke  quietly  to 
Guest,  and  he  smiled  cheerfully  at  what  she 
told  him.  The  old  man's  eyes  grew  grave 
now  and  again,  and  Gudrun  seemed  as  if  she 
scarcely  knew  what  she  was  uttering.  At  last 
Guest  was  about  to  reach  out  once  more  for  his 
tankard,  but  the  words  she  spoke  arrested  the 
movement,  and  he  stopped  with  his  hand  half- 


172  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

way  to  the  cup.  His  gray  eyes  stared  earnestly 
at  her,  as  if  unseen  things  were  revealed  to  him. 
She  waited,  in  trembling  anxiety,  to  hear  what 
he  should  answer. 

"  And  thou  liest  awake  at  night  thinking  of 
these  things  ?"  he  said,  in  a  serious  and  tender 
voice. 

"  Yes,  father  Guest ;  but  of  all  my  dreams  four 
only  give  me  any  dread.  But  there's  enough 
of  dreams.  Take  your  tankard  and  tell  us 
some  merry  tales;  this  is  no  time  for  grave 
matters." 

"  Speak  quickly,"  he  said,  "  before  my  glimmer 
of  sight  passes  away,  " 

Then  she  spoke  swift  words :  "  In  my  dream  I 
thought  I  stood  by  a  stream-side  wearing  a  coif 
upon  my  head.  On  a  sudden  I  thought  how 
foul  that  coif  was,  how  ill  it  sat,  and  I  took  it 
from  my  head  and  cast  it  into  the  water." 

"  Well,  the  second  one,"  he  said ;  "  hurry  and 
tell  me  all." 

"  I  stood  by  a  great  water,  and  on  my  arm 
was  a  silver  ring  which  much  delighted  me ; 
but  it  slipped  from  my  arm  unawares  and  fell 
into  the  water." 

"  This  is  as  great  a  thing  as  the  last,"  said 
Guest.    "  What  next  ?" 

"  I  was  on  the  road  near  Bathstead,  and  had  on 
my  arm  a  gold  ring.     I  seemed  to  be  falling,  and 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  173 

stretched  my  arms  to  steady  myself,  when  the 
ring  struck  against  a  stone  and  broke  in  two, 
and  out  of  the  broken  ends  came  drops  of  blood." 

"  A  bad  omen,"  said  Guest.  "  Now  what  of  the 
fourth  ?" 

"  I  dreamed  I  wore  a  helmet  of  gold  on  my 
head,  and  was  proud  of  its  beauty ;  but  yet  it 
was  so  heavy  I  could  scarcely  hold  it.  Then  of 
a  sudden,  I  know  not  what  it  was,  but  some- 
thing unseen  tore  it  from  my  brow  and  tossed 
it  into  the  firth,  and  I  mourned  deeply,  but  my 
eyes  were  dry  in  spite  of  my  heart." 

Guest  turned  upon  her  with  an  old  man's 
smile,  looking  keenly  into  her  fair  face,  until 
she  hid  her  eyes  with  her  hands;  but  he  saw  a 
blush  rise  through  the  fingers,  and  he  sighed  as 
one  in  sorrow.  Then  he  told  her  the  meaning 
of  her  dreams.  She  would  have,  he  said,  a 
stirring  life,  but  she  would  outlive  all  the  wrong 
and  love  that  might  come  to  her,  and  survive 
alone  when  all  else  had  parted  from  her.  The 
ill-fitting  coif  was  a  mismated  husband,  whom 
she  would  shake  off  and  be  freed  from.  The 
silver  ring  was  another  husband,  who  would 
part  from  her  and  be  lost  in  the  firth,  as  was 
his  emblem,  the  ring.  The  gold  ring  was  a 
worthier  man,  her  third  husband,  whose  life 
would  be  taken  by  another;  and  the  heavy 
helm  was  her  last  mate,  who  would  be  a  great 

16* 


174  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

chief  and  hold  the  helm  of  terror  over  her, 
though  she  should  love  him  always. 

When  he  had  ended,  Gudrun  drew  her  hands 
away  from  her  face  and  sat  by  his  side  with 
fixed  eyes  and  pale  cheeks,  as  one  who  sees 
strange  inward  sights. 

"Thank  you,  good  father  Guest,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  well ;  but  may  you  not  see  awry  through 
these  far-off  years  ?" 

He  answered  nothing,  but  sat  still  with  sad- 
dened looks.     Then  at  last  he  rose. 

"  AVild  words,  wild  words,"  he  said.  "  But  now 
it  is  time  we  were  on  our  way."  Then  as  she 
glanced  full  at  him  he  saw  a  bright  red  spot  on 
either  cheek,  and  a  firm  set  mouth  keeping  back 
her  grief. 

She  entreated  him  to  wait,  for  her  father's 
sake ;  but  she  seemed  scarcely  to  heed  her  own 
words,  so  distraught  was  she,  and  Guest  an- 
swered that  he  must  start  at  once  to  reach 
Thickwood  before  night.  Then  she  led  him 
listlessly  from  the  hall,  and  he  and  his  company 
rode  away;  but  he  turned  before  his  fellows 
had  raised  the  garth  gate  and  watched  her 
standing  wistfully  by  the  hall,  her  long  shadow 
lying  clear  against  its  walls.  Then  when  once 
outside  he  turned  again,  and  shook  his  bridle- 
rein  and  cantered  away. 

Guest  and  his  company  had  gone  but  a  little 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  175 

space  when  they  beheld  a  man  come  towards 
them,  who,  as  they  drew  near,  greeted  Guest 
with  fair  words,  and  said  that  Olaf  Peacock 
sent  greeting  and  would  welcome  him  and  his 
company  to  his  hall. 

"  And  well  you  know,  goodman  Guest,  that 
meat  and  drink  are  ever  plentiful  at  Herdholt." 

Guest  laughed :  "  Well,  be  that  as  it  may.  Get 
swiftly  back  and  tell  him  I  will  come,  but  I 
must  not  tarry,  for  to-night  I  am  to  be  at 
Thickwood." 

Then  the  man  turned  and  whipped  his  horse, 
and  Guest  and  his  people  rode  on  slowly  by  the 
borders  of  the  bay  until  they  came  to  a  dale, 
where  they  saw  the  gilt  roof-ridge  of  Olaf's 
hall. 

Presently  out  of  the  garth  came  a  goodly 
company  of  men,  and  then  there  passed  a  joy- 
ous greeting  between  Guest  and  Olaf,  who  rode, 
followed  by  their  trains  of  well-looking  horse- 
men, through  the  great  hall  gate. 

Olaf  led  Guest  from  room  to  room  about  his 
castle  and  showed  him  many  marvels  of  curious 
workmanship ;  the  painted  tales  uj)on  the  walls 
and  the  fine  raiment  in  his  carven  chests.  At 
last  he  gave  Guest  a  rich  gift  as  he  left  the  hall, 
and  rode  on  with  him  a  little  way  to  point  out 
to  him  his  sons  where  they  bathed  by  the  shore. 

When  they  had  reached  a  low  knoll  overlook- 


176  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ing  the  Laxriver,  Olaf  cried  out,  "There!"  and 
pointed  where  a  throng  of  youths  sported  in 
the  water. 

Guest  looked  off  and  saw  the  tide  playing  on 
a  sandy  bar  at  the  stream's  mouth,  and  the 
southwest  wind  brought  up  to  his  ears  the  echo 
of  their  joyous  shouts. 

"  Goodman,"  he  said,  "  thou  art  lucky  to  have 
such  a  throng  of  sons,  if  they  do  as  well  on 
earth  as  in  the  water." 

"There  is  nothing  yet  to  tell  of  their  deeds," 
said  Olaf;  "  but  look !  now  they  see  us." 

One  of  the  bathers  rose  waist-high  and  sent 
up  a  shrill  call  like  a  sea-mew,  and  all  turned 
landward,  beating  the  water  to  foam  and 
scrambling  up  the  shore  after  their  clothes. 
Then  the  riders,  saving  only  Guest  and  Olaf, 
who  took  a  leisurely  pace,  rushed  down  the 
slope  to  meet  the  swimmers. 

"  Many  of  them,  then,  are  not  your  sons  ?" 
said  Guest. 

"No;  sons  of  dale-dwellers  near-by.  But 
Kiartan,  my  eldest,  leads  them  all  in  swimming." 

"  Tell  me  their  names,"  said  Guest. 

Then  Olaf  showed  him  Hauskuld,  his  youngest 
son,  and  Haldor  and  Helgi  and  Steinthor,  and 
as  this  last  one  rose  and  stepped  aside  he 
pointed  to  two  who  sat  on  a  gray  stone  near  the 
stream.     One  was  a  tall  youth  with  golden  hair, 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  177 

who  held  a  sword  on  his  knees  half  drawn  from 
the  sheath.  The  other  sat  on  the  grass  in  front 
of  him.  He  was  slim,  black-haired,  and  tall, 
and  looked  smilingly  into  his  companion's  face 
as  if  listening,  while  one  of  his  hands  lay  on 
the  sword  near  the  broad,  gray  blade. 

"No  need,  friend,  to  ask  about  the  others 
after  seeing  these,"  said  Guest,  "  for  without  a 
word  I  know  Kiartan,  who  draws  the  sword 
out  of  the  sheath,  and,  low  down  in  the  shade, 
that  is  Bodli  Thorleikson.  But  tell  me  about 
that  sword.     Who  bore  it  ?"  ! 

Then  Olaf  laughed :  "  Some  call  it  accursed. 
Bodli  bears  it  now,  but  it  once  belonged  to 
Geirmund,  my  daughter's  husband.  He  mar- 
ried her  without  my  wish,  but  his  love  soon 
grew  cold,  and  he  left  her,  to  roam  abroad.  He 
would  not  leave  the  sword,  but  she  helped  her- 
self to  it,  and  in  return — so  the  gossips  say — ^got 
the  cui'se  that  goes  with  it." 

Guest  answered  nothing,  and  seemed  to  brood 
inwardly  over  some  weighty  matter ;  but  Olaf 
cried, — 

"  Wise  friend,  thou  hast  heard  all  the  names. 
How  thinkest  thou  ?  Which  shall  do  well  in  the 
years  to  come?" 

Guest  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  spoke  in  a 
meditating  voice : 

"Surely,  goodman,  you  would  be  glad  if 
I. — m 


178  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Kiartan  had  more  glory  while  he  lived  than 

any  other  in  the  land." 

Then,  without  a  word,  he  raised  his  whip,  his 

horse  started,  and  he  rode  swiftly  away.     But 

as  he  galloped  onward  he  mournfully  turned  to 

his  son  Thord  and  spoke  of  many  things,  while 

the  ffreat  tears  rolled  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks 

and  over  his  white  beard,  for  he  saw  the  woes 

that  were  to  be  for  the  houses  of  Olaf  and 

Oswif. 

II. 

Time  wore  on,  and  a  part  of  Guest's  forecast 
came  true.  Attracted  by  her  beauty,  a  youth 
named  Thorvald  wooed  Gudrun  and  won  her  for 
his  wife ;  but  she  found  before  long  that  the  chain 
of  wedlock  was  a  galUng  one.  She  hoped  daily 
for  a  change  which  never  came,  and  began  to 
look  upon  her  husband  with  scorn  and  dislike. 
Thorvald  was  a  coarse  man,  rough  and  passion- 
ate by  nature,  and  little  used  to  wait  patiently 
for  things  to  mend ;  and  as  Gudrun  came  each 
morning  into  his  presence  with  her  melancholy 
looks,  rage  and  resentment  took  possession  of 
him.  Gudrun  was  secretly  glad  of  this ;  but 
her  husband  could  not  long  endure  the  estrange- 
ment, for  he  still  loved  her  in  his  impetuous 
way,  and  he  grew  more  and  more  vexed  with 
her. 

One  day  as  they  sat  in  the  hall  at  dinner  his 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  179 

passion  overcame  him,  and,  rising  suddenly  from 
his  seat,  he  cast  his  half-filled  cup  on  the  floor. 
Then  he  struck  her  on  the  face,  and  strode  out 
of  the  hushed  and  crowded  chamber.  He  got 
upon  his  horse,  and,  without  a  glance  behind, 
rode  away  furiously  over  hill  and  moor. 

Those  in  the  chamber  turned  anxious  eyes  on 
Gudrun  to  see  what  she  would  do.  For  a  little 
while  she  sat  silent,  then  she  called  them  about 
her,  and  spoke  gayly  of  this  and  that,  like  one 
freed  from  a  weight  of  care. 

But  Thorvald  came  back  again  in  a  short 
space,  and  she  met  him  so  changed  that  he 
thought  his  hasty  blow  had  brought  better  days. 
She  seemed  happy  enough  as  time  passed,  but 
he  misdoubted  her  humor,  and  gayly  went  his 
way,  keeping  harsh  thoughts  aside. 

In  the  spring  he  rode  out  one  morning  to  the 
court,  not  over-light  of  heart  or  free  from  fear, 
though  she  parted  from  him  kindly  and  frankly. 
But  the  next  day  Gudrun  went  alone  with  one 
man  to  Bathstead,  and  there  told  her  tale ;  and, 
as  in  that  time  the  law  did  not  hold  tight  those 
who  no  longer  loved,  and  as  her  kin  were  a  mighty 
folk,  she  received  her  divorce,  and  rode  speedily 
homeward. 

Once  more  she  dwelt  at  Bathstead,  and  was 
wooed  by  Thord,  who  also  won  her  love  and 
wedded  her.     He  was  a  brave  and  fair-looking 


180  Tales  from  Ten  Poets, 

man,  and  their  life  was  a  happy  one,  for  she 
loved  him  truly.  She  put  from  before  her  eyes 
the  strange  things  told  her  by  Guest,  and  tried 
to  forget  them.  But,  forgotten  or  remembered, 
fate  works  out  its  will ;  and  when  they  had  lived 
together  for  three  happy  months,  on  a  June 
night,  as  the  southwest  wind  blew  storm  across 
Gudrun's  sleeping  head,  her  husband's  body  was 
tossed  towards  the  eliifs  by  the  angry  firth. 
Rumor  told  that  he  was  drowned  by  wizard 
spells  in  a  summer  gale. 

So  back  went  Gudrun  to  Bathstead  ae-ain. 
She  sat  many  a  day  with  a  fierce  heart  brooding 
over  her  pain,  for  life  seemed  made  to  torture 
her ;  and  yet  through  all  her  woe  the  words  of 
Guest  would  come  constantly  to  her  mind  and 
quicken  her  into  consoling  thoughts. 

The  months  wore  on  and  spring  arrived  with 
its  unspoken  longings,  and  now  Kiartan's  name 
began  to  be  heard  on  every  man's  tongue,  for 
his  deeds  of  prowess  grew  famous  through  the 
land.  He  was  too  noble  to  excite  envy,  and 
his  fairness  of  face  and  limb  was  a  wonder  to 
look  ujDon.  He  was  leader  in  every  game  of 
strength  and  swiftness,  he  knew  the  craft  of  the 
smithy,  and  in  speech  he  was  most  wise,  and 
very  gentle,  so  that  all  the  little  children  loved 
him. 

But  while  others  praised  Kiartan,  Gudrun  sat 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  181 

apart,  brooding  on  her  lost  days  of  happiness 
and  thinking  how  worthless  such  fame  as  Kiar- 
tan's  was. 

Then,  when  midsummer  was  drawing  near, 
one  evening  as  the  household  sat  in  the  hall, 
they  heard  one  voice  call  to  another  far  away  in 
the  valley,  and  afterwards  the  sound  of  approach- ' 
ing  hoofs.  Oswif  rose  and  went  into  the  porch, 
and  greeted  the  travellers  as  they  arrived  at  his 
threshold;  but  Gudrun  sat  alone  on  the  high 
dais  when  all  were  gone  out  into  the  porch, 
and  played  unconsciously  with  her  finger -rings, 
musing  on  her  one  day-long  theme. 

Presently  all  the  company  began  to  come  back 
again,  and  she  turned  towards  their  voices  in 
spite  of  her  melancholy.  They  brought  lighted 
torches  in,  and  laughed  loudly  as  they  entered. 
Then  as  the  guests  came  down  the  long  hall 
she  knew  Olaf  the  Peacock,  who  was  hand  in 
hand  with  her  father.  Behind  them  came  two 
young  men,  and  she  began  against  her  will  to 
recall  the  tales  told  of  Kiartan,  because  she 
thought  the  one  with  the  hair  which  shone  gold 
in  the  torch-gleam  was  he,  and  that  the  black- 
haired  and  high-browed  one  must  be  Bodli. 

By  that  time  they  came  up  to  where  she  sat, 
and  she  felt  vexed  that  she  must  rise  to  wel- 
come them.  Then  Olaf  took  her  hand  and 
looked  at  her  compassionately. 

16 


182  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Sweet  Gudrun,"  he  said,  "  I  know  your  fate 
has  been  ill,  but  better  days  will  surely  come  by 
and  by.  Believe  me,  not  for  nothing  do  eyes 
like  yours  shine  upon  the  hard  world.  You  will 
bless  us  yet,  and  all  your  woes  will  be  forgot- 
ten." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  drew  away  her  hand, 
and  felt  her  grief  grow  deeper  still  that  men 
should  thus  speak  to  her.  But,  turning  around, 
she  saw  Kiartan  gazing  upon  her  with  hungry 
eyes  and  parted  lips.  A  strange  joy  entered 
her  listless  heart,  and  in  an  instant  her  old  world 
was  all  changed.  Before  she  could  reflect  on 
the  cause,  all  her  woe  passed  away,  and  her  life 
grew  sweet  again,  and  she  scarcely  felt  the 
ground  beneath  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  soft 
with  tears  that  did  not  fall,  and  she  reached  out 
her  hand  to  him.  Her  cheeks  burned  with  the 
shame  of  love,  and  her  lips  quivered  as  if  they 
longed  to  speak  what  they  had  never  learned 
and  might  not  utter  till  night  and  loneliness 
should  teach  it  to  her. 

Kiartan's  face  beamed  with  a  happy  smile, 
and  he  was  loving  and  confident,  as  he  spoke  in 
a  voice  which  mingled  music  with  might : 

"They  say  your  dead,  lady,  will  never  die, 
and  I  thought  to  have  labor  enough  to  draw 
you  from  the  grave  of  the  old  days  to-night ; 
but  you  remember,  I  see,  the  days  earlier  yet, 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  183 

when  we  came  together  as  younglings.  Surely 
your  eyes  look  kindly  on  me  now,  and  it  must 
be  because  of  this." 

A  brief  shadow  crossed  Gudrun's  face,  but 
she  answered  eagerly,  "  Ah,  if  only  such  pleas- 
ant days  might  last !  What  joy  it  was  to  wander 
hand  in  hand  gathering  shells  by  the  beach !" 
She  wondered  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  so 
strange  an  accent  it  had.  She  chid  her  heart 
for  rejoicing,  and  yet  felt  full  of  fear  for  some 
unknown  reason.  But  quickly  every  emotion 
was  stilled  as  Kiartan  sat  down  beside  her. 

Old  Oswif  smiled  to  see  her  so  changed,  and 
Olaf  laughed  outright  for  joy.  Bodli  sat  by 
them,  full  of  pleasure  in  their  newly  kindled 
liking ;  and  the  whole  place  ran  over  with  merri- 
ment and  good-will  because  of  Gudrun's  restora- 
tion to  happiness. 

At  last  in  the  glimmer  of  moonlight  Olaf  and 
his  company  rode  homeward,  each  with  thoughts 
which  were  born  of  the  new  hope:  Kiartan 
weaving  dreams  of  the  bliss  to  be,  Bodli  re- 
joicing in  his  foster-brother's  good  fortune,  and 
Olaf  full  of  the  glory  which  should  spring  from 
these  to  perpetuate  his  noble  line. 

But  Gudrun  was  sorely  vexed  by  the  conflict 
of  new  and  old  thoughts.  She  watched  Kiartan 
go  away,  and  her  heart  sank  within  her.  The 
wave  of  pity  and  shame  flowed  back  upon  her 


184  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  struggled  with  her  growing  love.  Yet  the 
very  struggle  strengthened  her  passion  and 
made  her  yearn  anew  for  its  object,  no  matter 
what  seeds  of  ill  might  be  hidden  there.  Then 
she  fell  asleep,  and  lay  at  rest  beneath  the  in- 
looking  moon,  which  fell  across  her  tumbled  bed 
and  searched  out  her  white  breast  and  one  arm 
buried  deep  in  her  wealth  of  hair.  She  seemed 
very  beautiful  and  soft  that  night  of  her  new 
birth  into  love  and  life. 

Seven  miles  was  but  a  little  space  to  part  two 
lovers  such  as  these,  and  very  soon  the  threshold 
of  Bathstead  hall  echoed  as  often  to  Kiartan's 
step  as  to  the  sweep  of  Gudrun's  silken  hem. 
Life  grew  to  them  something  sweeter  than 
words  could  tell.  To  waken  in  the  mornincr  and 
watch  from  the  casement  the  narrow  winding 
way  that  led  up  to  the  hall ;  to  feel  the  flutter  of 
heart  as  memory  gave  place  to  rapturous  sight 
at  the  threshold,  these  were  dear  experiences  ; 
and  then  the  long  hours  of  converse,  when  each 
word  was  like  music  which  fell  through  the  ear 
and  clung  to  the  heart ;  and,  sweetest  of  all, 
the  very  minute  of  parting,  because  then  Love 
lifted  the  veil  and  became  a  living  thing,  and 
showed  himself  palpably  to  them  as  their  lips 
and  hands  drew  back  and  they  went  from  each 
other  till  the  morrow.  The  long  nights,  too,  held 
manifold  joys  of  waking  and  sleeping  dreams. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  185 

And  yet  through  all  her  bliss  Gudrun  could 
hear  sometimes  the  strain  of  Guest's  prophecy, 
and  her  happy  mind  would  darken  at  the  in- 
truding thought.  But  she  put  away  the  warn- 
ing, and  lived  only  in  the  present,  and  what  she 
herself  refused  to  heed  no  other  divined :  so  all 
the  country-side  rejoiced  that  two  such  houses 
were  to  be  tied  fast  by  wedlock,  for  the  thing 
portended  long  years  of  peace. 

Now,  Bodli  was  still  overshadowed  by  the 
fame  of  Kiartan,  but  he  was  second  only  to  him 
in  all  men's  minds.  Though  he  needed  the  love 
of  his  fellows  more  than  Kiartan  did,  yet  he 
was  less  able  to  move  their  hearts ;  but  the 
mutual  trust  and  fellowship  of  the  cousins  were 
undiminished,  and  Olaf  loved  his  son  scarcely 
more  than  his  nephew.  Since  Kiartan  had  be- 
gun to  woo  Gudrun,  he  and  Bodli  seemed  drawn 
closer  together  than  ever  before.  In  truth, 
there  Avas  no  concealment  of  thought  or  act 
between  them. 

Thus  as  day  by  day  Kiartan  fared  to  Bath- 
stead,  he  found  the  road  always  shorter  if  Bodli 
rode  by  his  side.  He  would  pour  his  love  for 
Gudrun  into  his  companion's  willing  ears  and 
ease  his  heart  of  its  load  of  passion,  while  Bodli 
in  turn  loved  to  mock  him  with  light  raillery 
about  Gudrun.  Yet  Kiartan  saw  covertly  that 
his   brother's    heart  was    kindling    under   the 

16* 


186  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

influence  of  his  own,  though  as  yet  it  found  no 
lodgement  for  its  passion. 

But  one  day  as  the  three  talked  together  they 
began  to  name  over  in  sport  all  the  fair  and 
good  women  they  knew  who  were  yet  un wedded, 
pretending  so  to  choose  Bodli  a  mate. 

"  Then  over-sea,"  said  Kiartan.  "  There  may 
be  one  to  suit  over-sea.    Go  forth  and  win  her !" 

Bodli  laughed,  and  cast  upon  the  table  his 
great  sword  with  its  iron  hilt. 

"  Go,  sword,"  he  said,  "  and  fetch  me  a  bride. 
I  will  stay  here  in  Iceland  with  those  who  love 
me.     Go !" 

Then  Gudrun  said,  "  Things  more  strange 
have  happened  than  that  we  three  should  some 
day  float  upon  the  Thames  or  Seine.  There's 
little  to  gain  biding  here  at  this  cold  end  of  the 
world." 

Kiartan  sprang  up  and  threw  his  sword  aloft 
and  caught  it  by  the  hilt  as  it  fell.  "  Would  that 
the  bark  was  at  this  very  moment  ready  to 
bear  us  out !"  he  cried.  "  Oh,  would  that  we 
could  see  Italy  above  the  horizon  there !  But 
sheathe  youi*  sword,  Bodli,  till  I  give  the  word, 
and  wait  till  you  hear  from  me,  Gudrun." 

She  looked  lovingly  at  him,  and  Bodli  saw  her 
hand  reach  nearer  and  nearer  to  his.  Then 
Bodli  got  up  and  sheathed  his  sword. 

"No,  if  I  am  so  hard  to  marry,  I  think  I 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  187 

must  go  a-roving.  I  will  speak  with  Oswif  and 
learn  the  truth  about  the  warfare  between  Olaf 
Tryggvison  and  Hacon." 

Then  he  laughed  gayly  and  went  swiftly  from 
the  hall,  and  found  the  old  man,  and  did  not 
come  back  again  until  the  day  waned  and  the 
hall  began  to  fill  with  jDeople.  He  thought  that 
Kiartan  sat  strangely  quiet,  and  he  saw  an  un- 
usual glow  in  Gudrun's  eyes  as  she  gazed  on 
him,  and  a  shadow  rose  in  his  heart  that  made 
him  look  upon  the  world  as  something  less 
noble,  but  still  there  was  an  unknown  pleasure 
within  him.  On  the  way  home  Kiartan  was 
brooding  and  silent  or  spoke  in  words  of  light 
mockery ;  but  as  the  days  wore  on  there  was 
little  change  to  note,  and  Gudrun  and  he  were 
still  all  in  all  to  each  other.  But  they  talked 
oftener  now  of  fair  places  beyond  the  sea,  and 
sometimes  a  look  half  like  a  rebuke  would 
cross  Gudrun's  face  as  Kiartan  told  over  eagerly 
the  marvels  of  those  other  lands.  Bodli  fell  into 
deep  musings  as  he  heard  the  stories,  and  had 
strange  dreams  that  he  could  not  remember 
when  he  came  back  to  common  life. 

So  the  seasons  passed ;  but  in  the  autumn  the 
foster-brothers  rode  to  Burgfirth,  where  there 
was  a  ship  newly  arrived  in  White-Eiver.  They 
had  some  talk  with  the  seamen,  and  Kiartan  in- 
vited the  captain  back  to  Herdholt  as  his  guest. 


188  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

He  gladly  went  with  him,  and  thus  they  learned 
tidings  of  the  warrior  Hacon,  who  had  been 
slain.  His  son  was  exiled,  and  Norway  lay  in 
peace  under  the  hand  of  Olaf  Tryggvison.  The 
captain  was  full  of  praises  for  this  king.  He 
was,  he  said,  the  noblest  man  who  ever  held  the 
tiller  or  cast  the  spear ;  and  to  this  Kiartan  lis- 
tened eagerly. 

But  when  he  went  to  Bathstead,  Kiartan 
talked  less  than  before  of  his  yearning  to  see 
the  outlands,  and  when  Gudrun  would  ask  him 
of  the  thing  he  would  answer  her  evasively  or 
lightly  and  change  the  subject  with  a  kiss.  He 
also  spoke  of  her  less  to  Bodli  now,  though  his 
brother  (because  of  her  beauty,  was  the  excuse 
he  made  to  himself)  was  more  anxious  than  ever 
to  hear  news  of  her.  Bodli  began  to  feel  that 
the  times  were  changing  over-fast  when  Kiartan 
could  deny  answers  to  questions  which  in  other 
days  would  have  gained  a  loving  and  instant 
response. 

Yule-tide  came  at  last,  and  the  neighbors  from 
far  and  near  went  to  one  another's  feasts,  and,  as 
the  custom  was,  all  Bathstead  went  to  Herd- 
holt.  The  revelling  was  long  and  generous 
there,  and  Gudrun  sat  in  the  high  seat  by  the 
goodwife,  where  she  heard  the  new  king's  name 
echoed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  much  talk 
from  the  wayfarers  of  the  south  lands.   A  sharp 


Tlie  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  189 

pain  went  through  her  anxious  heart  as  she  be- 
held Kiartan  lean  forward  on  the  board  in  silent 
and  rapt  attention  to  the  news.  She  watched 
him  for  a  long  while  with  sad  and  hungry  looks ; 
and  all  the  time  Bodli  gazed  at  them  with  a 
fading  smile  on  his  lips  and  with  eyes  growing 
more  and  more  troubled,  until  he  hardly  saw  the 
people  about  him. 

But  the  Christmas-tide  went  by,  and  the  year 
drifted  on  towards  the  midsummer.  One  day 
in  his  happiest  mood  Kiartan  came  to  Bathstead, 
bringing  Bodli  with  him,  who  was  strangely 
silent  and  dull,  which  Gudrun  noted,  though  she 
talked  even  more  gayly  than  was  her  wont.  As 
evening  fell  down  along  the  valley,  Kiartan 
spoke  softly  to  her. 

"  Let  us  make  the  most  of  our  bliss,  dearest, 
for  I  must  go  away  from  you  soon.  In  a  day 
or  two  you  will  hear  our  horns  blow  the  Loath- 
to-go,  and  I  must  put  on  my  fighting  gear." 

"  And  am  I  to  stay  behind  ?"  she  said,  turning 
with  surprise  upon  him.  "  Others  may  call  me 
what  they  will ;  you  know  me, — kind  and  long- 
enduring.  If  I  am  wnth  you,  I  care  not  how 
the  rough  sea  treats  me.  Come,  let  me  share 
the  glory.  I  will  go  with  you  and  take  the  fear 
you  cast  aside." 

She  stood  before  him  with  meeting  palms  as 
one  in  prayer,  and  she  was  pale  and  weary-look- 


190  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ing.  Bodli  paced  up  and  down  the  hall  with 
clanking  sword  and  set  brows,  scarcely  less  pale 
than  Gudrun.  The  waning  sun  shone  through 
the  narrow  windows  and  fell  in  gold  upon  her 
breast  and  clasped  hands.  Kiartan  stood  gazing 
upon  her  with  a  wavering  heart.  Love  of  her 
and  love  of  fame  were  in  sore  conflict  within 
him.  At  last  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the  pavement 
and  knit  his  brow,  as  though  he  meant  to  say 
some  bitter  word.     Gudrun's  hands  fell. 

"  No,  no !"  she  cried  impatiently,  "  I'll  not  ask 
you  twice  to  take  a  good  gift.  I  know  my  heart, 
and  you  do  not.  Farewell.  Maybe  the  Skalds 
will  tell  of  other  great  deeds  than  yours." 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale  as  she  brushed  by 
Bodli,  who  stood  aghast  with  open  mouth  and 
hands  vainly  stretched  forth.  Kiartan  followed 
her  a  step  or  two,  then  stopped  bewildered. 
But  suddenly,  like  a  changing  wind,  she  turned 
back  and  came  trembling  to  his  side. 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me !"  she  said,  with 
streaming  eyes.  "Do  not  take  my  words  as 
men's  are  taken.  Oh,  fair  love,  go,  and  let  your 
fame  run  through  the  lands,  for  I  know  that 
what  you  win  is  all  mine,  as  you  are  all  mine 
at  last." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
Kiartan,  touched  with  love  and  pity,  made  offer 
to  give  up  the  voyage ;  but  she  still  bade  him 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  19 1 

go,  and  not  be  beguiled  by  a  woman's  tears.  A 
mist  was  in  his  eyes  also  as  he  pressed  her  fair 
head  to  his  breast. 

"  My  sweet,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  keep  tryst  once 
again  to  say  farewell  before  the  ship  sails ;  then, 
when  I  come  back  with  honor  won,  how  good  it 
is  to  think  of  our  rejoicing  !" 

She  said  some  little  words  no  pen  can  write, 
and  laid  her  hands  against  his  face,  and  amidst 
his  kisses  played  lightly  with  his  hair.  Then, 
smiling  through  her  tears,  she  went  away,  seem- 
ing wholly  to  forget  that  Bodli  stood  by  them. 

But  before  the  day  arrived  when  Kiartan 
meant  to  bid  Gudrun  farewell  a  long-desired 
change  came  in  the  weather.  A  northwest  wind 
sprang  up,  and  Kalf  the  captain  urged  them  to 
set  out  while  yet  it  lasted.  There  was  a  great 
bustle  and  hum  of  voices  in  the  hall  over-night, 
and  the  next  morning  at  dawn  Kiartan,  with 
Bodli  beside  him,  led  from  the  gates  ten  strong 
and  well-armed  warriors.  Kalf  pointed  his  spear 
towards  the  south,  and  they  followed  him,  and 
rode  away  amid  shouted  words  of  parting  from 
the  household,  in  the  midst  of  whom  stood  Olaf, 
flushed  with  joy,  and  proud  of  the  brave  set- 
ting forth  of  his  kin. 

That  night  Kiartan  and  his  company  came  to 
Burgfirth,  where  the  ship  lay  anchored  in  White- 
Eiver,  and  on  the  morrow  they  got  on  board 


192  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  sped  away  with  bellying  sail  and  long  sweep- 
ing oar. 

III. 

After  much  time  at  sea,  Eliartan  and  his  men 
came  to  Drontheim  in  Norway,  where  now  ruled 
Olaf  Tryggvison,  and  they  heard  on  every  side 
praise  of  the  King's  might  and  fame,  and  how 
he  had  turned  from  the  old  faith  of  his  land  to 
worship  a  new  God  and  demanded  that  all 
others  should  do  likewise. 

Now,  Kiartan  was  of  a  haughty  spirit,  and 
had  come  forth  from  his  own  country  to  find 
adventure,  and  not  to  bow  to  another's  rule. 
He  spoke  with  his  countrymen  who  were  in 
Drontheim  and  brought  them  to  resist  the  King's 
command,  and  when  the  King's  messenger  sum- 
moned them  to  show  obedience  he  was  sent 
back  with  a  defiant  answer,  but  Kiartan  and 
his  fellow-Icelanders  put  on  their  arms  and 
went  up  to  the  council-chamber  in  menacing 
array. 

When  they  came  before  the  King  they  were 
commanded  to  accept  the  new  faith  or  suffer 
death,  whereupon  swords  were  quickly  drawn  ; 
loud  cries  echoed  through  the  great  hall.  And 
the  multitude,  led  by  Kiartan  and  Bodli,  fell  into 
deadly  combat.  But  the  King  had  no  wish  to 
slay  the   new-comers  even   if  he  might,   and 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  193 

planned   to  win  his  cause  by  peaceful   means 
rather  than  by  bloodshed. 

"  Hold !"  he  cried  to  his  people.  "  You  are  too 
quickly  stirred  to  wrath!"  Then  he  made 
friendly  overtures  to  Kiartan,  whose  noble  and 
forgiving  heart  was  touched  to  amity  by  his 
gentle  words. 

Thus  was  good  will  sealed  between  Kiartan 
and  the  King,  and  Kiartan  grew  great  in  his 
favor,  and  lived  with  him  in  the  palace  as  his 
guest,  till  at  last  at  Yule-tide  he  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  led  to  the  minster  in  white  raiment 
and  hallowed  into  the  King's  new  faith.  Then 
as  time  passed  the  gossips  whispered  that 
Kiartan  was  to  wed  Ingibiorg,  the  King's  sister, 
for  they  were  day-long  together,  and  she  was 
fair  of  face  and  of  a  gentle  and  graceful  mien, 
and  Kiartan  found  much  pleasure  in  her  com- 
pany, though  he  never  slackened  in  his  troth  to 
Gudrun. 

But  Bodli  brooded  day  by  day  upon  his  home, 
and  waited  longingly  for  some  news  that  should 
free  the  Icelanders  from  the  King's  hold,  for  he 
knew  that  unless  the  priests  who  had  been  sent 
to  spread  the  faith  in  Iceland  brought  back 
favorable  tidings,  he  and  his  friends  would  still 
be  detained  at  Drontheim. 

At  last,  one  day,  the  good  news  came,  and  also 
came  cheering  word  from  Herdholt  and  Bath. 
I.— I        n  17 


194  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

stead  that  all  went  well,  and  then  in  a  little 
space  the  ships  lay  by  the  quay  pointed  towards 
Iceland,  and  Bodli,  flushed  and  bright-eyed,  went 
to  bid  Kiartan  farewell. 

"Ah,  Bodli,  you  are  glad  to  go,"  he  said. 
"  Why,  this  is  the  best  face  I  have  seen  since  we 
left  Burgfirth." 

Bodli  frowned.  "You  are  as  glad  to  stay, 
perhaps,  as  I  to  go.  "What !  do  you  think  I  plot 
against  you,  then  ?" 

"  You  are  the  strangest  of  men,  Bodli,"  said 
Kiartan,  puzzled  by  his  words.  "  Come  now, 
leave  off  riddles,  and  let  us  be  as  in  the  old 
times.  You  are  as  true  and  loyal  as  the  sword 
at  your  side.  Whatever  may  happen,  I  will 
trust  you  always." 

Then  Bodli  changed  and  besought  him  to  for- 
give his  dark  looks,  that  came  because  he  must 
leave  his  friend  behind.  He  promised  to  tell 
all  their  kinsmen  of  Kiartan's  good  fortunes, 
and  to  bear  the  news  to  Oswif  as  well. 

"  Tell  Gudrun,"  said  Kiartan,  gazing  steadily 
on  him,  "  all  that  you  know  of  my  honor  and 
happiness,  and  say  we  shall  meet  again." 

Then  they  kissed  and  parted,  and  Bodli  was 
borne  across  the  sea  to  Iceland  with  a  deep  and 
secret  passion  consuming  his  heart. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  195 

IV. 

Now,  one  day  in  the  waning  summer  Oswif 
and  all  his  sons  went  forth  to  the  west,  and 
Gudrun  stood  by  the  door  to  see  them  off.  Then 
when  they  had  vanished  behind  the  hill  she 
turned  and  gazed  long  and  fondly  towards  Herd- 
holt  and  the  south.  She  mused  sadly  on  the 
passing  year,  and  thought  how  her  heart  seemed 
to  harden  with  Kiartan's  absence.  She  won- 
dered, too,  if  he  would  think  her  strange  when 
he  saw  her  again.  Then,  yearning  to  have  him 
once  more  by  her  side,  she  inwardly  pleaded 
with  him  to  come  back, — come  back,  and  be  as 
of  old. 

For  a  while  she  looked  quietly  out  upon  the 
road,  until  the  wind  seemed  to  bring  her  the 
sounds  of  a  galloping  horse.  She  trembled  be- 
tween hope  and  fear  as  the  sounds  grew  plainer 
and  seemed  to  come  from  the  direction  of  Herd- 
holt.  At  last  she  saw  a  spear  rise  against  the 
sky  above  the  nearest  hill,  and  next  a  gilded 
helm.  Then,  joyfully,  she  saw  a  man  in  crimson 
armor,  who,  when  he  gained  the  highest  point, 
drew  rein  and  gazed  on  Bathstead  spreading 
beneath  him  there  in  the  valley. 

In  an  instant  the  rider  saw  her,  and  struck 
spurs  into  his  horse  and  rode  swiftly  to  the 
place  where  she  stood.      He  leapt  down,  and 


196  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

met  her  pale  and  troubled  face  with  the  appeal- 
ing eyes  of  Bodii  Thorleikson. 

A  dreadful  fear  arose  in  her  mind.  "  How  does 
it  fare  with  him,  your  kinsman?"  she  said. 

He  drew  back  with  a  sudden  pang :  "  Fear  not, 
Gudrun,  I  bring  fair  news  of  him.    He  is  well." 

"  Speak  out,"  she  said.  "  What  more  is  there  ? 
Is  he  at  Herdholt  ?     ^Yill  he  come  to-day  ?" . 

She  turned  away  then  with  a  bitter-sweet 
pain  ;  but  he  made  a  motion  as  if  to  reach  his 
hands  out  to  hers,  and  his  eyes  besought  her 
for  a  single  look  of  welcome. 

He  told  her  how  he  had  left  Kiartan  in  Nor- 
way praised  of  all  men,  and  how  her  lover  had 
bid  him  say  to  her  that  he  looked  to  see  her 
face  again.  "  So  God  be  good  to  me,  these  were 
his  words." 

Hereupon  she  turned  around  in  sudden  anger, 
bitterly  accusing  Kiartan. 

Then  Bodli  said,  "  Well,  I  have  done  my  part ; 
let  others  tell  the  rest."  And  he  turned  to  go, 
but  lingered  on. 

"  No,  no,  friend  of  my  lover,"  she  cried.  "  If 
I  speak  ill  words,  pardon  me,  for  my  heart 
aches  with  pent-up  love." 

She  reached  out  her  hand,  and  he  turned  and 
took  it,  and  his  eyes  swam  with  tears.  It 
seemed  almost  that  his  vain  dreams  had  at  last 
come  true,  and  that  he  was  bom  again  to  a  hap- 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  197 

pier  life.  But  she  slowly  withdrew  her  hand  and 
stepped  back. 

"  Speak,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  fear.  When 
will  he  come  ?  Tell  me  the  sweet  words  he  gave 
you  for  me.     Tell  me  of  all  his  deeds." 

Bodli  told  her  the  true  tidings,  saving  of  Ingi- 
biorg,  and  she  listened,  trembling. 

"  Good,  very  good,"  she  said,  w^hen  he  had 
ended.  "  Yet  why  does  he  tarry  beyond  the 
sea?" 

Bodli  flushed  red :  "  Oh,  Gudrun,  must  you  die 
for  one  man's  sake,  you  who  are  so  heavenly? 
How  shall  I  tell  you  ?  You  may  live  long,  and 
yet  never  see  Kiartan  come  back  hither." 

She  stood  motionless.  Bodli  stretched  out  his 
hand  :  "  They  lie  who  say  I  did  the  thing,  who 
say  I  wished  for  it.  Oh,  Gudrun,  he  sits  day  by 
day  with  Ingibiorg  as  lovers  do,  and  men  babble 
that  soon  he  is  to  wed  her  and  be  made  king, 
and  that  Olaf  and  he  will  conquer  Denmark  and 
England." 

She  said  some  words  in  a  voice  which  sounded 
like  the  wailing  wind,  then  she  passed  by  Bodli's 
trembling  hands  without  giving  him  a  look,  and, 
blinded  by  the  fire  that  burnt  in  his  heart,  he 
turned  and  got  into  the  saddle,  and  knew  noth- 
ing until  he  drew  rein  by  Herdholt  porch. 

Three  days  he  sat  in  the  hall  in  black  despair, 

till  his  people  began  to  whisper  and  watch  his 

17* 


198  Tales  from  len  Poets. 

going  and  coming  with  a  great  dread.  But  on 
the  fourth  day  a  messenger  came  from  Gudrun, 
who  bade  him  come  to  her  at  once,  and  he  got 
up  and  rode  madly  to  Bathstead  hall. 

A  great  pleasure  came  to  his  heart  when  he 
saw  her  slim  figure  move  towards  him  down  the 
dusky  hall,  but  when  he  saw  her  face  he  was 
hopeless. 

She  asked  him  sorrowfully  to  tell  her  over 
again  the  news  of  Kiartan,  and  while  he  told 
all  the  bitter  tidings,  a  passion  now  and  again 
swept  through  her  like  the  impulse  of  free- 
dom though  a  dove  caught  in  the  meshes.  She 
waited  till  the  last  word  was  spoken,  then 
flunar  out  her  arms  and  wailed  aloud.  Bodli 
stood  silent  like  one  who  meets  for  the  first  time 
in  hell  the  woman  he  has  ruined,  the  while  her 
sobs  calmed  slowly  down  to  silence.  At  last  a 
smile  full  of  her  wonted  courtesy  crossed  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  Bodli,"  she  said,  "  how  good  you  have 
been  to  me !  But  why,  why  does  he  stay  from 
me?" 

He  pondered  what  to  answer,  but  she  took 
his  hand  in  the  familiar  way  of  other  days 
and  led  him  to  a  seat  and  sat  down  beside  him. 
Then,  as  she  asked  it,  he  told  her  once  again  all 
that  had  happened  in  Norway. 

"  But  how  may  I  know,"  she  said,  "that  this 
is  true  ?" 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  199 

"  Would  God  I  were  a  liar !"  he  groaned.  "  Oh, 
Gudrun,  you  will  find  it  but  too  true."  Then 
he  rose  and  went  towards  the  door,  heedless  of 
her  voice  behind  him.  But  yet,  when  he  had 
ridden  away  and  reached  Herdholt,  the  time  he 
had  passed  with  her  seemed  a  very  heaven  to 
him,  and  he  longed  to  be  near  her  again. 

Thus  between  varying  emotions  he  passed 
many  days,  often  meeting  her  among  her  kins- 
men at  Bathstead,  and  sometimes  alone.  There 
was  little  rest  for  him  night  or  day,  and  even 
death  itself  seemed  to  promise  no  cure  for  his 
malady. 

Kiartan  still  sojourned  in  Norway,  but  sent 
home  no  word  of  his  doings,  so  that  Gud- 
run at  last  ceased  to  speak  of  him,  deeming  him 
lost  to  her  forever.  Then  the  gossips  began  to 
babble  of  a  match  between  her  and  Bodli,  but 
they  marvelled  greatly  at  it,  and  held  it  a 
pity  that  one  so  fair  should  wed  a  man  so 
strange  and  sad.  But  yet  the  thing  came  to 
pass  after  a  while ;  and  thus  the  seed  sown  by 
evil  hands  sprang  into  being  and  bore  its  bitter 
fruits. 


Now,  Kiartan  at  Olaf  Tryggvison's  court  began 
to  long  for  home  and  the  sight  of  Gudrun  ;  and 
at  last,  after  much  entreaty  from  the  King  to 


200  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

tarry  longer  with  him,  he  embarked  for  Iceland. 
But  the  parting  from  Ingibiorg  pained  him 
deeply,  for  she  had  grown  to  love  him  with  a 
great  passion. 

Then  Kiartan  and  his  followers,  guided  by 
Kalf,  the  captain,  crossed  the  sea,  and  one  day 
landed  at  Burgfirth.  There  they  raised  their 
tents,  as  the  wont  was,  and  held  a  fair  of  the 
treasure  brought  in  the  ships. 

Olaf  and  his  sons  were  away  from  Herdholt 
when  news  of  Kiartan's  arrival  reached  the 
hall;  but  Thurid,  his  sister,  and  her  husband 
Gudmund,  came,  and  Kdlf's  father  Asgeir, 
bringing  Refna,  his  daughter,  with  a  host  of 
others. 

As  Kiartan  began  to  ask  news  of  this  and 
that  old  acquaintance,  Thurid  approached  him 
with  an  anxious  face  and  drew  him  aside.  In 
some  amazement  be  went  with  her. 

"  Brother,"  she  said,  "  I  feared  3-ou  might 
speak  of  Gudrun.     You  did  not  ask  for  her  ?" 

Kiartan  trembled.  "  I  thought  ill  news  would 
come  of  itself     Is  she  dead  ?" 

"  No,"  stammered  Thurid ;  "  she  is  well — and 
wedded !" 

"  Wedded !  And  the  Peacock's  house  ?  I 
used  to  think  them  valorous  and  my  father 
a  great  man.  And  Bodli's  sword — where  was 
it?" 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  201 

He  looked  in  her  face,  then  turned  and  stag- 
gered wildly  away  from  her. 

"  Oh,  blind,  blind,  blind !"  he  wailed.  "  Oh, 
Gudrun,  I  am  back  with  all  the  honor  won 
you,  and  who  shall  hear  the  tale  of  my  deeds  ? 
Oh,  how  shall  I  learn  to  hate  you,  Bodli,  turned 
into  a  lie  as  you  are  ?" 

He  had  gone  some  paces  blindly,  and  now 
Thurid  called  him,  and  he  turned  suddenly 
around.  All  the  noises  about  him  sounded 
as  if  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
world.  The  far-away  shouts  of  the  shipmen, 
the  murmur  of  the  sea,  and  the  bleat  of  ewes 
on  the  downs, — all  these,  and  even  his  own 
name,  and  the  grass  and  white  strand  and  dis- 
tant hills,  seemed  but  as  pictures  in  some  dream, 
with  their  meaning  lost. 

"  In  this  last  minute  the  world  is  clean  changed 
for  me,  sister,"  he  said ;  "  but  yet  I  see  that  it 
will  go  on  in  spite  of  my  pain.  Come,  then,  I 
must  meet  my  friends  and  face  the  life  to  be." 

She  smiled  kindly  upon  him,  and  they  went 
into  the  biggest  tent,  where  there  was  a  crowd 
busied  over  the  gay  wares.  Kalf  was  kneeling 
by  a  bale  of  rich  stuffs,  and  close  by  him  sat 
Refna  with  her  slim  and  dainty  hand  laid  on  an 
embroidered  bag,  and  her  fair  head  crowned 
with  a  rare  coif. 

As  Kiartan  entered  she  raised  her  deep  gray 


202  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

eyes  to  him  and  blushed  blood-red,  and  he  in- 
wardly writhed  with  bitter  anguish  because  of 
this,  and  because  the  coif  she  wore  was  the 
gift  Ingibiorg  had  given  him  for  Gudrun  at 
parting. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  she  said.  "  They  have  put 
this  queen's  gift  on  my  head  against  my  will." 

"  Surely  it  becomes  you  well,"  he  answered, 
evasively,  "  and  whoever  set  it  there  did  right. 
He  were  a  rich  man  indeed  who  owned  both 
the  maiden  and  the  coif" 

"  So  great  and  famed,  so  fair  and  kind,"  mur- 
mured Refna.  "  Where  shall  any  maid  be  found 
to  say  no  to  such  asking?" 

Then  he  turned  suddenly  around,  and,  laugh- 
ing wildly,  said,  with  a  scowl, — 

"  All  women  are  alike  to  me, — all  good,  all  a 
blessing  to  this  fair  earth." 

Silence  fell  on  the  group  for  a  little  space,  but 
anon  he  began  to  talk  to  one  and  another  in  his 
old  gentle  way,  and  through  the  rest  of  the  time 
they  stayed  there  he  seemed  unchanged,  for  so 
his  father  thought  when  he  greeted  him  at  last 
in  Herdholt.  But  Gudrun' s  name  was  not 
spoken,  either  in  the  tents  by  the  ship  or  in 
the  hall. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  203 

YI. 

KiARTAN  found  all  things  about  his  home  as 
he  had  left  them  so  long  ago.  There  stood  the 
hills,  there  Lax-Kiver  ran  down  to  the  sea ;  the 
thrall  and  serving-man  came  home  from  fold 
and  hay-field,  and  Olaf's  cheery  voice  called 
above  the  mead-horns.  The  fiddle-bow  danced, 
the  harp-strings  twanged,  and  olden  tales  of 
love  and  wrong  were  told  as  of  yore.  But  there 
was  one  change  that  had  a  deep  meaning  for 
the  home-comer :  Bodli's  face  was  absent  from 
the  hall. 

Many  woful  thoughts  pressed  upon  Kiartan's 
mind  as  he  brooded  over  his  wrong,  and  bitter- 
ness grew  within  him  day  by  day.  Yet  the 
other  two  were  as  much  in  need  of  pity  at 
Bathstead. 

Theirs  had  been  a  dismal  wedding,  where 
every  tongue  was  checked  lest  some  word  should 
be  uttered  to  wound  another's  feelings,  or  some 
name  spoken  that  should  kindle  the  smoulder- 
ing indignation  into  open  fire.  The  sons  of 
Oswif  were  silent  and  fierce,  and  Olaf  shrank 
back  into  his  high  seat  and  seemed  aged  and 
weary.  His  sons  looked  doubtfully  at  Bodli, 
and  more  than  once  the  hot  words  they  would 
have  flung  at  him  were  checked  by  their  father's 
warning  eye. 


204  '^  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Then  on  the  morrow  Gudrun  and  Bodli  began 
a  life  void  of  happiness,  but  full  of  capricious 
changes  in  mood  and  act.  The  hall  which  once 
rang  with  gay  and  free  mirth  became  silent  and 
dull. 

But  one  autumn  evening  as  Bodli  and  Gud- 
run, with  her  brother  Ospak,  sat  on  the  dais, 
there  came  to  the  gate-way  two  wandering 
churls  who  asked  for  shelter.  As  none  was  ever 
turned  away  from  Oswif 's  door  unheeded,  they 
were  soon  seated  amid  the  boisterous  house- 
carles,  revelling  in  mirth  and  ease.  They 
pleased  their  audience  with  coarse  jokes  and 
themselves  laughed  loudest  of  all  the  table-full. 

Ospak  sat  awhile  in  his  place  looking  across 
at  Bodli  with  scorn,  for  he  had  grown  to  hate 
the  brooding  looks  always  bent  downward  in 
despair.  At  last  he  yawned  with  either  hand 
stretched  out,  and  cried  aloud  to  the  merry 
company  at  the  lower  table, — 

"  Well  fare  you,  fellows !  What  gives  you  so 
much  merriment?     We  are  not  merry  here." 

One  stepped  forth.  "  Sooth,  Ospak,"  he  said, 
"our  talk's  of  little  worth.  These  wandering 
churls  are  full  of  meat  and  drink  and  make  a 
deal  of  fan." 

"  Bring  them  here,"  said  Ospak ;  "  they  may 
help  to  divert  us." 

The  wanderers  came  up  from  the  lower  end 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  205 

of  the  hall,  ill  clad  and  unkempt,  yet  with 
merry  faces  enough.  They  were  a  little  timo- 
rous in  such  presence,  but  drink  emboldened 
them  before  long. 

«  Well,  fellows,"  said  Ospak,  "  what  tidings 
are  afield  ?    Where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

The  first  man  turned  his  leering  eyes  on  Bodli, 
and  a  cunning  grin  came  upon  his  face ;  but  just 
as  he  began,  the  other,  drunker  and  perhaps, 
therefore,  wiser,  screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  said, — 

"  Say-all-you-know  goes  with  a  clouted  head." 

"  Say-naught-at-all  gets  beaten,"  said  Ospak, 
*'  if  he  has  his  belly  full  of  meat  and  makes  no 
answer." 

"Do  not  be  angry,  son  of  Oswif,"  said  the 
first;  "yet  Mistress  Gudrun  there " 

"  Tush  !"  said  the  second,  "  thou  art  mighty 
full  of  fear  for  a  man  full  of  drink.  Let  her  say 
that  we  shall  go  as  we  came,  and  all  is  soon  told." 

Ospak  laughed,  and,  sprawling  over  the  laden 
board,  he  sat  with  his  cheek  close  to  his  cup. 
But  Gudrun  turned  to  him  pale  and  with  a 
great  agony  of  hope  striving  in  her. 

"  Tell  me  the  tale,  and  have  a  gift  for  it,"  she 
said.  "My  finger  is  no  better  for  this  gold. 
Draw  it  off."  And  she  reached  her  hand  out 
to  the  man,  who  stood  wondering  at  her,  half 
sobered  by  her  face  and  not  daring  to  touch  the 

ring. 

18 


206  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  We  came  from  Burgfirth,"  at  last  he  said, 
"  where  about  a  new-anchored  ship  they  held 
a  sale.  The  skipper  was  Kalf  Asgeirson,  and 
many  others  were  there." 

Ospak  still  sat  chuckling  to  himself  and 
lolling  over  his  cup,  but  Bodli  rose  up  and  be- 
gan to  pace  to  and  fro,  as  he  had  done  once 
before  in  that  same  place. 

The  man  went  on :  "I  saw  Gudmund,  and 
Thurid,  and  Asgeir  and  his  daughter,  as  they 
stood  about  a  man  whose  mantle  was  red  as 
blood  and  fine  as  a  king's  raiment." 

Ospak  hereupon  put  up  his  left  hand  to  his 
ear,  as  one  who  listens  intently,  and  smiled  all 
the  while.  Then,  amid  unbroken  silence,  the 
wanderer  said, — 

"  I  had  never  seen  this  tall  man  before.  He 
carried  a  wondrous  weapon  in  his  sword-belt  all 
gemmed  and  overwrought  with  gold.  I  dared 
not  ask  his  name,  yet  surely,  mistress,  I  deemed 
him  to  be  Kiartan  Olafson." 

He  looked  around  as  he  finished,  as  if  he 
feared  something  would  happen,  but  those  three 
hearts  were  stirred  no  further  by  a  name  each 
expected  to  hear  spoken.  Bodli  still  paced  the 
floor ;  Ospak  beat  a  tune  ujoon  the  board  with 
his  hand;  and,  saying  not  a  syllable,  Gudrun 
drew  the  ring  from  her  finger  and  gave  it  to 
the  news-bearer.     But   Ospak  knew  that  the 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  207 

trinket  had  been  Bodli's  first  gift  to  his  sister 
when  they  had  plighted  troth. 

Then  the  travelling  churls  went  slowly  down 
the  hall,  but  one  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
withdrew,  and  saw  Ospak  lean  over  to  Gudrun 
and  nod  his  head  at  Bodli,  meanwhile  pointing  a 
mocking  finger  at  his  own  breast.  But  Gudrun 
did  not  heed  him  ;  for  she  had  but  one  thought : 
that  Kiartan  had  come  back  and  she  should 
see  him  once  again. 

Night  came  slowly  down  upon  the  dull  hall, 
and  all  went  off  to  bed  save  Bodli,  who  sat  alone 
in  the  high  seat.  It  was  nearly  dawn  when  he 
heard  behind  him  a  light  footfall.  He  did  not 
dare  to  look  around,  till  presently  the  figure  was 
close  beside  him,  white  in  the  half-dusk  of  the 
morning.  He  tried  to  cry  out,  but  his  tongue 
clove  to  his  mouth,  and  he  had  no  power  to  reach 
his  sword-hilt.  It  seemed  as  if  his  guilt  and  sor- 
row stood  there  bodily  before  him,  yet  when  a 
dreadful  voice  spoke  he  knew  it  was  Gudrun's. 

"  I  came  again,"  she  said,  "  because  I  lay 
awake  and  thought  about  what  men  have  told 
of  traitors,  and  I  wanted  to  see  how  one  would 
look  to  me.  Night,  nor  death  either,  shall  hide 
you  from  what  you  have  wrought,  O  Bodli 
Thorleikson!  My  curse  upon  you!"  And  she 
broke  into  wild  gestures  and  an  endless  stream 
of  bitter  words. 


208  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Bodli  helplessly  stretched  out  his  hands  for 
peace,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Would  God  I 
were  dead !  and  yet  I  hope  to  have  kinder  words 
than  these  from  Kiartan  before  I  die." 

"  Yes,  he  is  kind,  he  is  kind,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  He  loves  all,  and  casts  his  kindness  wide  as 
God.  He  loves  me  as  God  loves  his  crawling 
creatures;  and  who  knows  how  I  love  him? — 
how  I  hate  a  face  he  looks  kindly  on  ?  God  help 
me,  I  am  talking  of  my  love  to  you,  and  I  yet 
may  prove  even  such  a  traitor  as  you  before 
the  tale  is  done !" 

vShe  went  away  then,  but  lingered  close  by,  as 
if  to  hear  what  he  might  say.  But  dawn  came 
up  apace,  the  sparrows  woke  about  the  eaves, 
the  swan  trumpeted  from  far  away,  and  the 
cold  morning  wind  running  along  the  hangings 
caught  her  unbound  hair,  drove  her  night-clothes 
around  her  body,  and  stirred  the  rushes  on  which 
she  stood. 

Their  eyes  met  a  moment  in  a  strange  look, 
and  he  rose  with  haggard  face  and  trembling 
limbs  as  if  to  embrace  her,  but  she  tossed  her 
arms  wildly  over  her  head  and  with  one  dreadful 
glance  fled  away. 

VII. 

The  days  wore  on,  and  Kiartan  was  silent 
about  the  two  who  had  wronged  him.  But 
Olaf  was  anxious,  and  feared  that  some  day  his 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  209 

son's  smouldering  resentment  might  burst  forth 
into  a  blaze  of  revenge. 

Kalf  the  captain  came  often  to  the  Peacock's 
stead  during  that  autumn  and  brought  his  sister 
Eefna.  At  last  it  began  to  be  whispered  that 
she  would  make  a  seemly  wife  for  Kiartan,  if 
he  ever  chose  to  marry.  Eefna  heard  these 
rumors  and  grew  full  of  foolish  hopes.  But 
Kiartan  paid  little  heed  to  her,  though  he  noted 
well  how  she  looked  on  him,  and  he  could  not 
pass  her  by  without  seeing  how  fair  and  gentle 
she  was. 

As  Yule-tide  came  round  again  Oswif  bade 
the  Bathstead  folk  to  Herdholt,  and  all  made 
ready  to  go  save  Kiartan,  who  wandered  aim- 
lessly among  the  busy  groups  on  the  morning 
of  parting,  but  said  not  a  word  to  any  soul. 

When  Olaf  heard  of  this  he  came  to  Kiartan 
with  an  anxious  face. 

"Why  will  you  still  harbor  wrath,  my  son? 
Come,  let  the  past  be  past.  You  are  young,  and 
may  gain  many  another  honor  and  love." 

Kiartan  tirrned  slowly  and  said,  with  a  sneer, 
"Truly,  sir,  love  abounds  in  this  kind  world. 
One  more  than  I  deemed  of  loved  my  love,  and 
there's  the  trouble."  But  as  he  looked  at  his 
father's  gray  locks  and  wrinkled  brow,  he  asked 
more  kindly,  "  What  would  you  have  me  do, 
father  ?  I  sit  here  quietly  and  let-  others  live 
l.—o  18* 


210  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

their  lives  as  they  will.  Would  you  desire  to 
wake  up  strife?" 

Olaf  denied  that  he  did,  but  spoke  his  sorrow 
for  his  son's  grief  and  loneliness,  and  plead  with 
him  to  go  to  Bathstead  with  the  rest. 

So  Kiartan  at  last  consented,  and  once  again 
he  saw  the  place  which  of  old  had  seemed  holy 
to  him.  He  made  no  outcry  as  he  greeted 
Bodli,  who  came  towards  him  with  a  shamefaced 
mien,  but  simply  said, — 

"  Be  merry,  Bodli ;  you  are  nobly  wedded. 
You  had  the  toil,  and  now  the  reward  is  yours." 

Then  he  saw  Gudrun  far  away  in  the  hall, 
and  caught  her  gray  eyes  as  they  turned  to  his, 
and  the  three  that  were  friends  stood  gazing  at 
one  another  in  silent  bitterness. 

The  feast  was  spread,  and  the  Yule-tide  merri- 
ment went  round  the  board,  but  Kiartan  sat 
coldly  through  it  all,  watching  Gudrun,  still  in 
her  perfect  loveliness,  untouched  by  passion. 
Bodli  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  in  feverish 
dread,  striving  to  pierce  the  masks  they  wore, 
and  fearing  each  moment  to  hear  a  shriek  from 
the  broken  heart  of  his  wife. 

When  the  day  was  over,  Bodli  brought  Kiar- 
tan three  handsome  horses,  such  as  had  never 
before  been  seen  in  Iceland.  He  entreated  him 
to  take  them,  but  Kiartan  only  said  in  a  low 
voice, — 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  211 

"  Do  not  strive  with  fate,  Bodli.  You  have 
made  your  choice ;  gifts  and  love  will  scarcely 
heal  a  wound  like  mine.  God  keep  us  wide 
apart." 

Then  Olaf  and  his  household  went  homeward  ; 
and,  as  they  rode  together,  Olaf  blamed  his  son 
for  refusing  the  gifts,  and  plead  with  him  to  go 
again  to  Bathstead.  Kiartan  answered  duti- 
fully, but  he  warned  Olaf  that  the  seed  he  was 
sowing  would  one  day  bring  forth  a  dreadful 
fruit. 

Now,  it  happened  that  through  the  tender 
oflSces  of  Thurid,  and  because  Kiartan  felt  his 
heart  touched  by  Refna's  beauty,  he  came  to 
love  her  in  a  pitying  fashion  because  she  grew 
pale  in  loving  him,  and  at  last  he  married 
her. 

Then  the  months  passed,  and  autumn  came 
again,  and,  as  was  the  yearly  custom,  the  Bath- 
stead  kindred  went  over  in  turn  to  Herdholt ; 
and  though  Kiartan  was  loath  to  face  them, 
yet  his  father  prayed  him  to  put  by  his  doubts, 
and  once  more  he  was  obliged  to  see  Grudrun 
and  Bodli  together. 

Eefna  beheld  Gudrun's  great  beauty  with 
troubled  thoughts ;  and  Kiartan  noting  this, 
and  how  Gudrun  sat  in  the  hall  as  if  she  were 
its  mistress,  grew  angered.  Then,  as  the  guests 
were  marshalled  to  their  seats,  and  the  serving- 


212  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

maid  asked  him  who  should  fill  the  high  seat 
beside  the  goodwife,  he  roared  out,  "  Who, 
damsel,  but  my  wife  ?"  As  he  spoke  he  glanced 
at  Gudrun,  and  their  eyes  met.  She  changed 
color,  and  he  grew  warmer  still,  berating  the 
girl  in  scornful  words  levelled  at  Gudrun. 

"  You'll  have  to  fight  for  Gudrun  yet,"  laughed 
Ospak  to  Bodli  in  a  whisper  all  could  hear ;  and 
thus  the  feast  began. 

The  next  day  Thorgerd  called  Eefna  to  her, 
and  bade  her  put  on  the  rich  coif  given  to  Kiar- 
tan  by  Queen  Ingibiorg.  Eefna  reddened  and 
looked  with  appealing  eyes  to  her  husband,  who 
was  deep  in  thought  and  said  nothing.  She 
went  then,  seeing  there  was  no  escape,  and  put 
on  the  glittering  head-dress,  and  came  to  her 
seat  on  the  dais  looking  like  a  brilliant  star 
through  the  shadowed  hall. 

Ospak  saw  Gudrun  turn  pale  at  this,  and  he 
showed  his  teeth  like  a  sulky  hound,  muttering 
that  the  coif  had  been  stolen  from  his  sister; 
but  Kiartan  went  over  and  sat  by  his  wife,  and 
whispered  that  he  liked  her  better  with  no  or- 
nament at  all  upon  her  fair  brow.  "  Look  down 
there,"  he  said,  "  at  Oswif 's  scowling  sons  !  The 
coif  may  draw  their  swords  upon  us  before  we 
part." 

Gudrun  watched  them,  sick-hearted  and  full 
of  malice,  as  she  saw  how  Kiartan's  hand  lay  on 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  213 

Eefna's  and  how  close  their  cheeks  came  to- 
gether. She  was  ready  now  to  second  her 
brothers  in  their  growing  hatred. 

Then  the  next  morning,  after  the  guests  had 
departed,  Kiartan  went  to  find  his  sword,  the 
gift  of  the  King,  which  he  had  laid  aside  while 
he  bade  them  Godspeed ;  but  he  found  it  gone 
from  its  place  above  his  bed.  He  questioned  all 
his  people,  but  none  had  seen  it. 

Meanwhile,  An  the  Black,  a  sturdy  house- 
carle,  slipped  out,  and  came  back  presently, 
panting  sorely,  but  smiling  all  the  while.  He 
carried  something  wrapped  in  his  cloak. 

"  Well,"  said  Olaf,  "  what  has  happened 
now?" 

An  told  how  he  had  followed  Olaf  and  his 
party,  knowing  what  thieves  they  were, — ^this  he 
said  with  a  dangerous  sparkle  of  the  eyes, — and 
at  the  Peat  Moss  he  saw  young  Thorolf  lag 
behind  and  take  something  from  his  cloak.  He 
thrust  it  down  into  the  bog,  then  swiftly  rode 
on  again.  But  An  came  up  to  the  place  when 
they  were  out  of  sight  and  drew  forth  the 
sword.  The  scabbard  was  gone  past  recovery, 
rich  and  beautiful  as  it  was. 

Hereupon  he  drew  the  bright  and  naked 
"  King's  Gift,"  as  it  was  called,  from  his  cloak, 
and  Olaf  was  rejoiced  that  it  was  found,  and 
praised  An  for  his  achievement. 


214  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Kiartaa  spoke  musingly,  taking  the  sword  in 
his  hand.  "  Who  can  tell,"  he  said,  "  but  this, 
after  all,  will  end  the  troublous  tale?  Well,  I 
did  not  cast  the  sheath  away." 

VIII. 

Now,  although  Olaf  bade  An  hold  his  peace, 
and  although  Kiartan  likewise  promised  to  be 
fair-spoken  to  the  kin  of  Bathstead,  yet  before 
long  the  story  of  the  stolen  sword  came  to  be 
known  far  and  wide.  News  reached  Kiartan's 
ears  that  Oswif 's  sons  deemed  that  they  had 
cast  a  shame  on  Herdholt  by  the  theft,  and  that 
they  openly  mocked  him  as  "  Mire-Blade."  But 
Kiartan  was  unmoved  by  these  rumors,  and  until 
the  return  of  Yule-tide,  when  the  men  of  Herd- 
holt  made  ready  to  ride  to  Bathstead,  nothing 
happened  to  mar  the  outward  amity  of  the  two 
houses. 

When  Olaf 's  household  was  ready  to  set  out, 
Thorgerd  told  Eefna  she  must  again  wear  the 
queen's  coif  and  look  like  the  bride  she  was. 
Eefna  dared  not  refuse,  but  she  entreated  the 
goodwife  to  spare  her,  and  pleaded  that  it  might 
remain  in  her  chest. 

"  No,  no!"  said  Kiartan.  "  If  it  were  only  for 
you  and  me,  sweet,  there  it  might  rest ;  but  I 
remember  how  when  I  was  a  child  and  wanted 
some  glittering  thing,  an  axe  or  a  knife,  my 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  215 

mother  would  let  me  have  it,  knowing  that  I 
would  be  sure  to  cut  myself  in  punishment." 

Eefna  looked  down  puzzled  and  shamefaced. 
Thorgerd  turned  to  Kiartan  with  a  frown,  but 
he  only  smiled  and  said,  "  Yes,  mother,  let  the 
gold  burn  among  the  Bathstead  lights.  Come, 
we  must  play  our  parts  openly." 

So  the  coif  was  brought,  and  the  company 
once  more  rode  to  Olaf's  hall  and  feasted  as 
merrily  as  was  their  custom.  But  when  the 
season  of  revelling  was  over,  and  Eefna  looked 
for  her  golden  head-gear,  it  was  gone  and  could 
not  be  found.  She  passed  through  the  crowd 
and  whispered  the  news  to  Kiartan.  Ospak 
stood  near  them  and  bit  his  lips,  watching 
eagerly  what  they  did. 

"  Well,  let  it  be,"  said  Kiartan  ;  "  light  won, 
light  gone.  If  it's  still  above  ground,  Eefna, 
doubt  not  it  will  one  day  be  recovered." 

Each  one  in  the  hall  looked  alarmed  at  his 
neighbor.  Thorgerd  turned  to  Gudrun  and 
said,  firmly, — 

"  I  have  seen  the  day  when  the  kin  of  Egil 
would  kill  a  man  or  two  for  a  thing  of  less 
worth  than  this." 

Gudrun  calmly  met  her  frown.  "Was  the 
thing  his  own  ?"  she  asked.  "  It  is  small  loss  for 
her  to  sit  without  his  old  love's  coif  upon  her 
head." 


216  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Before  Thorgerd  could  answer,  Kiartan  cried 
out  to  Bodli,  "  Come,  ride  with  me  to  the  hill 
by  the  beach.  I  must  speak,  cousin,  what  has 
troubled  my  mind  these  last  days  of  our  meet- 
ing." 

Bodli  flushed  red,  and,  taking  his  sword  from 
his  side,  gave  it  to  his  wife. 

"  One  sword  will  be  enough  between  us  to- 
day," he  murmured ;  then,  as  they  rode  away, 
Kiartan  leaned  toward  Ospak  and  mockingly 
said,  "  I  love  you.  I  would  not  have  you  die. 
Do  not  see  me  too  often,  because  I  have  a 
plague  sometimes  that  brings  those  who  come 
near  me  to  the  grave." 
*  Ospak's  hand  fell  on  his  sword-hilt  and  he 
shrank  back  to  the  doorway.  Kiartan  laughed 
gayly  as  he  and  Bodli  rode  jingling  down  to 
the  sea. 

But  the  laughter  passed  from  Kiartan's  lips 
when  he  and  Bodli  at  last  came  to  be  alone. 

"  You  see,  Bodli,"  he  said,  "  how  we  two  must 
swim  down  this  strange  stream.  You  are 
weaponless  to-day,  and  my  sword  stays  in  its 
scabbard.     How  long  is  it  to  last  ?" 

"  Until  I  am  no  more,"  said  Bodli.  "  Shall  I 
take  life  and  love  both  from  you,  Kiartan  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  but  you  cannot  be  so  sure 
of  it,  Bodli.  Remember  where  you  stand,  be- 
tAveen  a  passionate  woman's  heart  and  the  envy 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  217 

of  a  dangerous  fool.  You  are  helpless.  As  a 
thing  begins,  so  it  must  end.  Ah,  brother,  the 
old  days  are  still  dear  to  me,  in  spite  of  all  that 
has  come  to  pass ;  but  to-day  I  part  from  you 
and  them  forever.  What  say  you,  then :  shall 
the  days  to  come  be  forgiven  ?  Shall  it  not  be 
remembered  less  that  we  have  parted,  than  that 
we  once  loved  each  other  dearly  well  ?" 

Bodli  gazed  silently  into  his  brother's  face. 
"  0  Kiartan,  why  do  you  speak  thus  ?"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  do  the  wrong  twice  over  in  hearing  you 
say  the  words." 

Then,  when  he  had  done,  Bodli  started  back, 
and  the  murmuring  sea  seemed  to  tell,  from  far 
off,  of  rest  from  pain.  On  a  little  knoll  he 
turned  about,  and,  looking  toward  the  hill,  saw 
Kiartan's  spear  glittering  above  its  brow,  but 
the  warrior  himself  was  hidden  below.  Then 
Bodli  slowly  rode  home  to  await  the  end  of  aU. 


IX. 

INow,  one  day  in  the  spring-time  Eefna  wan- 
dered by  a  brook  near  to  Herdholt,  and  at 
last  lay  down  in  a  grassy  place  and  fell  asleep. 
When  she  awoke  she  could  hear  the  sound  of 
voices  near  by,  though  the  speakers  were  con- 
cealed from  her  by  the  thick  leafage  under 
which   she   rested.      There  were   two   women 

K  19 


218  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

talking  as  they  washed  the  household  linen,  and 
their  news  was  of  Kiartan. 

"They  say,"  one  repeated  to  the  other,  "that 
though  it  is  latter  spring,  yet  Kiartan  has  done 
nothing  to  punish  the  two  thefts  of  the  Bath- 
stead  men." 

"Fool!"  said  the  second,  "must  he  stir  up 
strife  for  every  trifle  ?" 

"  Well,  at  all  events,"  quoth  the  first,  "  none  of 
Kiartan's  kin  would  have  dared  to  do  the  thing 
to  Gudrun.  Listen,  this  is  the  truth,  for  every 
one  knows  it.  Gudrun  and  Kiartan  would  be 
very  glad  were  Bodli  and  Eefna  out  of  the  way !" 

Eefna  came  to  her  husband  with  this  gossip 
and  opened  her  aching  heart  to  him ;  but  he 
only  showered  kisses  on  her  and  drew  her  to  his 
breast.  Her  faith  and  love  for  him  touched  him 
deeply,  so  pure  and  changeless  was  she ;  yet  he 
could  not  but  think,  even  while  she  lay  against 
his  heart,  of  the  hopes  of  old,  now  fallen  all  to 
nothingness. 

For  a  day  or  two  after  this  he  went  about 
with  a  brooding  face,  but  at  last,  one  noon,  he 
bade  his  men  see  to  their  war  array,  and  com- 
manded that  two  hours  after  midnight  all  of 
them  should  await  his  coming  in  the  hall.  They 
were  punctually  present  when  he  entered,  clad 
in  his  faii'est  armor ;  and  Eefna,  who  watched 
the  spears  and  glittering  mail  through  the  hang- 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  219 

ings,  heard  the  rough  laughter  of  the  men  and 
saw  the  red  lights  glare  in  the  gray  dawn  with 
a  wild  alarm. 

Kiartan  found  her  before  he  set  out,  and  gayly 
promised  her  a  noble  gift  when  he  should  re- 
turn. "Do  your  part  to  receive  it  graciously, 
Eefna,"  he  said  ;  "  gather  the  fiddlers  and  glee- 
men  here  to  make  merry  with  you." 

Eefna  guessed  the  cause  of  this  warlike  sally, 
and  she  grew  faint  at  heart  to  think  that  words 
of  hers  should  have  led  to  it.  She  clung  to 
Kiartan,  but  he  gently  drew  her  hold  from  his 
mail-rings  and  kissed  her  lovingly.  Then  she 
fell  back  in  tears  upon  her  bed,  and  presently 
heard  his  cheerful  cry:  "To  Bathstead,  ho!" 
and  the  noisy  crowd  clashed  through  the  hall 
and  passed  out  at  the  gates.  After  this,  all  was 
still,  save  the  loitering  footsteps  of  some  maid 
getting  back  to  bed,  and  she  lay  alone  in  great 
dread  and  grief. 

But  at  Bathstead,  before  the  household  was 
up  that  morning,  there  was  heard  the  far-away 
winding  of  a  horn ;  and  when  they  ran  to  the 
door,  Oswif  's  sons  saw  a  great  company  beset- 
ting every  exit  of  their  home.  The  Bathstead 
men  hurriedly  put  on  their  arms  and  went  out ; 
but  there  was  a  tent  of  gay  stripes  raised  on 
the  slope  against  the  hall,  and  Olaf 's  sons  stood 
all  around  it  with  sixty  followers. 


220  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

One  man,  taller  than  the  rest,  stood  some 
yards  nearer  the  hall  door,  leaning  on  a  pen- 
noned  spear,  and  clad  in  glittering  mail.  He 
had  a  shield  about  his  neck  bearing  a  picture  of 
the  Holy  Eood,  and  out  of  his  helmet  fell  long 
yellow  locks.  His  eyes  were  hidden  by  the  brim, 
but  Oswif  and  his  sons  knew  that  it  was  Kiar-. 
tan,  and  a  great  fear  overtook  them,  notwith- 
standing their  fiery  hatred  of  him  and  his  kin. 

Ospak  alone  among  his  fellows  did  not  quail, 
but  strode  out  before  the  rest,  crying, — 

"  We  were  wont  to  receive  you  inside,  not 
out,  Kiartan  Olafson.  "What  have  you  done,  that 
you  are  forbidden  to  enter?" 

The  tall  man  did  not  move,  but  a  deep  voice 
came  from  the  helm, — 

"  I  am  sick  now,  and  somewhat  deadly  to  those 
who  come  near  me.  My  sword  has  lost  its  scab- 
bard.    Beware  of  its  naked  edge !" 

Then  Ospak  shook  his  spear  aloft,  but  the  tall 
man  stood  forth  and  pushed  back  his  helm  and 
showed  the  face  of  Kiartan. 

"  Back !  till  I  bid  you  come  out,"  he  cried. 
"  My  father's  sons  have  sworn  to  spare  no  man 
of  you  if  a  single  drop  of  blood  is  spilt.  Back 
to  your  hall !  We  are  here  to  take  our  due  from 
meadow  and  barn."  Then  he  let  down  his  helm 
and  returned  to  the  tent,  while  the  Bathstead 
men,  armed  but  helpless,  sat  silent  within,  and 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  221 

heard  the  raiders  drive  their  cattle  froBi  the 
pastures.  Bodli  was  in  the  high  seat,  but  his 
face  was  worn  and  sad ;  yet  he  looked  as  if  he 
were  thinking  of  gentle  things,  even  while  the 
fierce  eyes  of  Gudrun's  brothers  scowled  upon 
him.  She  herself  paced  restlessly  hour  after 
hour  through  the  hall,  while  old  Oswif  sat  apart 
with  wrinkled  brow,  unnoticed  by  the  surly 
warriors. 

The  sounds  of  laughter  and  blowing  horns 
outside  became  louder  and  louder,  and  never 
ceased  till  mid-day.  It  grew  more  quiet  then, 
though  those  within  still  heard  the  lowing  of 
cattle  and  the  shouts  of  the  victorious  drivers. 

Then  a  voice  came  from  the  hill-side :  "  Ee- 
joice,  men  of  Bathstead,  that  you  need  hold  no 
autumn  feast  this  year.  Come  out :  we  will  not 
harm  you  now ;  we  have  paid  ourselves,  and  all 
is  peaceful." 

They  did  not  stir.  Then  the  voice  again  cried, 
"  What !  are  you  all  dead  with  fear  ?  Come  out, 
I  say!"  'K^ 

Then  Ospak,  with  a  great  oath,  cast  down  his 
shield  and  spear  and  strode  out,  and  the  rest 
followed  him,  one  by  one,  till  Bodli  and  Gudrun 
were  left  alone. 

"  And  you, — will  you  not  go  ?  Do  you  know 
who  it  is  that  shames  us  thus?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  said.  "  Farewell ;  I  will 

19* 


222  Tales  from  Ten  Foets. 

go,  but  not  without  my  sword."  And  lie  drew 
his  sword,  and  went  among  Oswif  s  sons,  who 
stood  foaming  and  impotent  at  the  door.  Kiartan 
sat  in  his  saddle  outside,  and  his  brothers  stood 
around  him  beside  their  horses,  while  a  great 
noise  came  from  the  cattle  that  thronged  the 
way  below  the  hill. 

Bodli  stepped  out  and  confronted  his  foster- 
brother. 

"Come,  son  of  Olaf,  meet  me  now,"  he  cried, 
"  for  long  have  I  been  weary  of  the  earth,  and 
but  one  thing  seems  good  to  me, — that  I  should 
take  death  at  your  hands." 

Then  the  bright  steel  shone  in  the  sunlight, 
and  Olaf 's  sons  would  soon  have  ended  all,  but 
Kiartan  shouted,  above  the  clash  of  arms, — 

"Hold!  make  a  hedge  of  your  shields  and 
thrust  him  back.  It  is  vain  for  him  to  win 
death.  Live,  cousin,  and  get  what  you  may  of 
joy  and  honor !" 

Bodli  held  back  his  weapon  and  retreated 
into  the  d'>or-way  before  the  wall  of  shields. 
Then  Kiartan  said, — 

"  Better,  cousin,  if  you  must  die  by  me,  that  it 
should  be  in  some  noble  fight.  Yet  God  grant 
us  many  a  day  before  it  happens !"  Then,  turning 
to  the  rest,  "  But  listen,  you  thievish  sons  of  a 
wise  old  man.  I  gave  you  from  Yule  till  this 
day  to  pay  your  debt.    I  take  it  twice  told  now, 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  223 

and   I  leave  behind  a  double  shame.     This  is 
my  bridal  gift.     Think  well  of  it." 

Bodli  still  stood  in  the  door-way  with  drawn 
sword,  while  amid  the  clang  of  arms  and  blare 
of  horns  he  saw  the  herd  move  up  the  dusty 
road.  He  saw  Kiartan,  too,  hnger  behind  the 
rest  and  stare  at  the  gray  hall  whose  roof  had 
so  often  covered  him,  and  he  could  fancy  that  he 
sighed  as  he  looked  back  at  its  spreading  angles. 

"  Ah,  would  God  I  had  died  by  that  hand  to- 
day !"  said  the  hopeless  alien ;  then  he  sheathed 
his  sword  and  was  hustled  by  the  sullen  and 
bailed  brothers  into  the  hall. 

The  time  went  far  differently  at  Herdholt. 
When  evening  came,  Kefna,  watching  from  the 
knoll,  saw  a  dust-cloud  move  toward  her  far 
away  on  the  road,  and  her  heart  beat  fast  when 
she  beheld  in  its  midst  helms  and  spear-heads, 
and  at  last  the  guarded  herd.  She  bade  the 
women  put  on  their  best  array,  and  placed  the 
minstrels  on  either  side  the  path  to  greet  the 
band,  whose  horns  by  this  time  blew  close  to  the 
garth-gate.  Now  they  passed  through  the  gate 
and  over  the  home-field  toward  the  wall,  wear- 
ing the  Bathstead  flowers  bound  upon  their 
helms,  while  the  cattle  were  garlanded  with 
wreaths  from  their  own  pastures. 

From  the  close  within  came  joyful  cries  and 
sounds  of  harp  and  fiddle,  and  a  shout  ran  all 


224  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

along  the  line  of  warriors  in  gay  response.  Old 
Olaf  came  out  to  the  door  to  greet  his  sous, 
and  Kiartan  leapt  down  by  Eefna's  side  and 
threw  his  arms  about  her. 

«  Behold,  Eefna !  the  '  Queen's  Gift'  is  fittingly 
paid  for,"  he  cried.  "  These  are  yours,  sweet,  to 
put  from  you  all  care  and  every  word  that  grieves 
you  !" 

Eefna  tried  to  utter  her  thanks,  but  could  find 
no  words,  and,  with  a  loving  cry,  hid  her  face  in 
his  breast. 

"  A  dear  price  to  pay  for  a  girl's  coif!"  Olaf 
muttered.  "Woe  is  me  that  I  should  live  to  look 
upon  these  latter  days !" 

X. 

Kiartan  after  this  rode  fearlessly  about  the 
country,  and  the  sons  of  Oswif  made  no  open 
attempt  to  take  revenge  for  his  foray  into  their 
domain. 

But  one  day,  as  three  of  the  brothers  sat  to- 
gether in  Bathstead,  Ospak  came  near  and  said 
that  the  gabbling  crone  Thorhalla  had  just  been 
to  the  hall  and  spoken  of  Kiartan,  whom  she  saw 
on  the  road.  She  told,  too,  that  Kiartan  would 
ride  to  Knoll  in  the  west,  which  news  she  had 
learned  from  his  own  lips,  for  he  promised  to 
bring  her  back  half  a  mark  which  one  owed  her 
who  lived  on  his  way  thither. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  225 

"  Oh,  enough  of  this  gabbling  idiot,  God  strike 
her  blind  !"  said  Thorolf. 

"Eather,  God  keep  her  eyes,  say  I,"  replied 
Ospak,  "  for  she  told  me  that  he  would  stay 
three  days  at  Knoll,  and  then  ride  through 
Swinedale  home,  close  by  us,  and  with  but  few 
at  his  back, — two  at  most.  Good  luck  to  his 
pride  !  What  a  chance  for  us  then  !  Bodli  shall 
lead  or  die!" 

It  fell  out  as  the  old  woman  had  said,  for 
Kiartan  rode  from  Knoll  with  goodraan  Thorkel 
and  twelve  others,  who  brought  him  well  on  his 
way.  But  where  the  pass  grew  wider  and  opened 
out  into  Swinedale,  Kiartan  stopped  his  com- 
pany and  said  to  Thorkel, — 

"  Thanks  to  you,  goodman,  for  the  guidance  ; 
but  now  get  back.  I  fear  nothing  between  this 
and  Herdholt." 

"  Well,  but  there  is  time  enough  yet  for  you 
to  be  waylaid  before  you  are  safe  at  home," 
said  the  old  man.     "  Let  us  ride  on." 

But  Kiartan  was  firm,  and  bade  him  and  his 
men  farewell,  saying  that  Bodli  was  still  his 
friend  and  restrained  the  brothers,  and,  besides, 
he  did  not  ride  quite  alone,  for  An  the  Black  and 
another,  named  Thorarin,  were  with  him. 

Now,  early  that  morning   Oswif's  sons  had 
taken  their  stand  along   a   stream,  deep  in   a 
hollow  where  the  narrow  pass  turned  to  the 
1.-P 


226  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

south ;  aud  there  they  waited  for  Kiartan  to 
come  by  the  road.  Before  he  approached,  Bodli 
lay  high  up  ou  the  bank,  so  that  his  helm  just 
showed  above  the  dip  of  the  highway,  and  Ospak 
went  over  and  accused  him  roughly  of  tiyiug 
to  warn  his  kinsman  of  the  danger. 

"  Come  down,"  he  cried  ;  "  we  have  got  you 
aud  the  cursed  Mire-blade  in  a  trap,  and  we  do 
not  mean  that  3-ou  shall  escape  us." 

"If  you  knew  anything  of  love  or  honor," 
said  Bodli,  "  I  might  tell  you  why  I  am  here. 
If  I  wanted  to  save  Kiartan,  I  should  do  it  an- 
other way.     How  if  I  stood  beside  him  ?" 

"Down  with  you!"  muttered  Ospak.  "Hold 
your  peace,  or  he  will  hear  us !" 

As  Ospak  said  this  they  heard  the  chnkingbits 
of  Kiartan's  horses,  and  he  came  merrily  on, 
singing  an  old  ballad  in  praise  of  Odin.  Then 
suddenly  the  Bathstead  horn  rang  out,  and  Kiar- 
tan drew  rein  and  looked  about  him. 

Instantly  the  ambushed  bi'others  sprang  forth 
and  made  toward  him.  Kiartan  and  his  men 
leapt  down,  aud  he  led  them  toward  a  rock  be- 
side the  road,  where  they  stood  at  bay. 

Kiartan  looked  most  noble,  as  he  paused  there 
in  shining  mail,  with  his  drawn  sword  ready  for 
the  fray;  but  when  his  eye  fell  upon  Bodli  a 
change  came,  and  at  first  he  dropped  his  hands 
like  one  who  thinks  all  is  over  and  gives  up. 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  227 

But  in  an  instant  his  brow  cleared,  and  he 
hurled  his  spear  at  Thorolf,  who  fell  clattering 
to  the  ground.  "  Down  goes  the  thief!"  he  cried. 
"  Brave  men  have  met  more  than  these  and 
come  fairly  off." 

There  was  silence  then,  save  for  the  noise  of 
the  mail  rings;  but  now  the  brothers  rushed 
across  the  dusty  road,  there  came  a  confused 
gleam  of  swords,  and,  through  the  tumult,  now 
and  then  a  sharp  cry  or  groan  as  the  points 
went  home.  Yet  Bodli  stood  pale  as  death  be- 
side them  with  sheathed  sword,  and  raised  no 
hand  in  the  fight. 

Presently  there  was  a  lull,  and  the  Bathstead 
men  drew  off,  but  the  three  still  held  out  unhurt, 
with  backs  against  the  rock. 

Then  Ospak  railed  at  Bodli,  and  threatened 
him  with  shame  and  hardship  if  he  took  home 
a  bloodless  sword.  But  Bodli  made  no  answer. 
He  stood  like  a  man  of  iron,  while  the  breeze 
blew  his  long  black  hair  around  his  cheek-pieces 
and  fanned  his  scarlet  kirtle. 

Then  one  cried  out  that  they  lost  time,  and  they 
fell  to  again ;  but  now  their  strokes  were  directed 
most  against  Thorarin  and  An.  The  first  of 
these  broke  presently  from  the  crowd  and  ran 
swiftly  away,  followed  by  two  stout  men  from 
the  Bathstead  band;  but  An  the  Black  fell 
wounded  to  death,  and  over  him  instantly  fell 


228  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Gudlaug,  Oswif  B  nephew,  with  a  limb  shorn  off 
by  Kiartan. 

Now  once  again  there  was  a  short  lull,  and 
then  the  four  fell  furiously  upon  Kiartan,  but 
soon  gave  back ;  and  the  noble  son  of  Olaf,  with 
his  mail-coat  rent  and  his  shield  hanging  low 
down,  panted  for  breath,  but  stood  without  a 
wound. 

Still  Bodli  was  passive ;  and  Ospak,  enraged 
at  his  inaction,  struck  him  in  the  face  with  his 
blood-smeared  hand. 

"  Get  home,  you  half-hearted  traitor,  and  take 
my  blood  to  Gudrun  !"  he  cried. 

Not  a  word  came  from  Bodli's  lips,  and  his 
sword  rested  in  its  scabbard.     Ospak  railed  on : 

"Are  you  grown  too  full  of  dread,  O  fond 
lover,  to  look  him  in  the  face  whom  you  did  not 
fear  to  cozen  of  his  bride  ?  Why  draw  back, 
when  you  may  now  gain  all  with  one  stroke  ?" 

Then  Kiartan,  too,  called  out  Bodli's  name 
clear  and  loud,  and  at  the  first  sound  Bodli  turned 
his  face  about  in  a  puzzled  way,  until  he  caught 
Kiartan's  eyes ;  then  his  mouth  quivered  and  he 
hid  his  face  in  his  mail-clad  hands. 

"  They  are  right,  kinsman,  friend  of  the  old 
days,  friend  well  forgiven  now,"  said  Kiartan. 
"  Come  nearer,  that  you  may  know  my  face ; 
then  draw  your  sword,  and  thrust  from  off  the 
earth  the  fool  who  has  destroyed  your  happi- 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  229 

ness.  My  life  is  spoilt.  I  do  not  care  longer  to 
bide  and  vex  you,  friend.  Strike,  then,  for  a 
happy  life !" 

Bodli's  hands  dropped  down,  and  his  face  was 
full  of  doubt  and  shame.  Yet  he  had  grasped 
his  sword  even  before  Kiartan  spoke  the  last 
word,  and,  still  trembling,  he  now  drew  it  forth, 
while  even  the  sons  of  Oswif  shuddered  at  his 
wild  eyes  as  he  slowly  strode  toward  Kiartan. 

The  wind  moaned  on  the  hill-side,  and  a  far- 
oif  hound  barked  by  some  homestead  door ;  but 
the  dull  sound  of  Bodli's  feet  and  the  tinkle  of 
his  mail  rings  drowned  all  the  other  noises  as 
the  space  between  them  lessened. 

Like  one  who  looks  vainly  for  help,  Kiartan 
glanced  around,  then  raised  his  shield  and  poised 
his  sword,  as  though  he  meant  to  fight  to  the 
end.  But  there  came  a  quivering  smile  upon 
his  lips  as  he  gazed  into  Bodli's  dreadful  face, 
and  there  was  a  flash  of  swords  that  never  met. 

"Ah,  better  to  die  than  live  on  so!"  cried 
Kiartan,  and  his  weapons  fell  clattering  to  the 
road ;  but  almost  before  they  had  touched  the 
bloody  ground,  Bodli's  sword  was  thrust  into 
his  kinsman's  unprotected  side.  Kiartan  fell 
down,  then,  and  Bodli  flung  himself  upon  the 
earth  and  bent  over  him  and  raised  his  head 
upon  his  knee. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  what  have  I  done  ?"  he 

20 


230  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

cried.  "I  meant  to  die.  'Twas  I  who  should 
have  died,  not  he.  Where  was  the  noble  sword 
I  thought  to  take  here  in  ray  breast  and  die  for 
Gudrun's  sake  and  yours  ?  Oh,  friend,  do  you 
not  know  me  ?     Speak  but  a  word  !" 

But  Kiartan  made  no  answer. 

"  And  will  you  not  forgive  ?"  moaned  Bodli. 
"Think,  brother,  of  the  days  I  must  still  en- 
dure!" 

Kiartan  opened  his  eyes  and  tried  to  get  upon 
his  feet,  but  he  failed,  and  only  gazed  hard  in 
Bodli's  face. 

"  Farewell  life,  farewell  Gudrun !"  he  mur- 
mured, then  fell  back  on  Bodli's  breast  and 
strove  to  take  his  hand,  and  was  dead. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Presently  the 
slayer  arose  and  took  up  his  sword.  He  spoke 
now  as  one  having  the  right  to  command  the 
rest: 

"  Here  is  a  mighty  one  laid  to  earth,  and  yet 
it  is  no  famous  deed  to  have  done  it.  His  great 
heart  overcame  him,  not  my  sword.  Go,  all  of 
you,  to  Bathstead,  and  name  me  everywhere  the 
slayer  of  Kiartan.  Send  hither  men  to  bear  the 
body  to  our  hall,  then  let  each  man  of  you  hide 
his  head,  for  you  will  find  it  hard  to  escape 
death.  I  will  stay  here,  but  I  shall  not  be 
utterly  alone." 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  231 


XI. 


When  the  bearers  of  Kiartan's  bier  reached 
Bathstead,  near  sunset  of  that  fatal  day.  a  black 
figure  stood  in  the  porch  to  receive  them.  The 
stern  face  looked  cold  and  gray  under  its  over- 
hanging hood,  but  about  the  feet,  as  if  in  token 
that  the  end  of  the  journey  was  near,  lay  the 
long  rays  of  the  dying  sunlight. 

Ever}^  heart  in  the  melancholy  throng  about 
Kiartan's  body  trembled  at  the  thought  of  meet- 
ing Gudrun.  She  had  raved  wildly  all  the  long 
day,  and  now,  when  he  was  borne  into  the  hall 
where  he  and  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours, 
her  grief  must  overwhelm  her  and  be  pitiful  to 
look  upon.  Could  she  survive?  Could  she  en- 
dure the  long  grief?  These  questions  were  on 
all  lips  as  the  bearers  drew  near  the  threshold. 

But  Gudrun  had  gained  a  stern  command  of 
herself  She  made  no  outcry,  only  came  near,  and 
in  a  low  voice  said,  half  to  them  and  half  to 
him  on  the  bier, — 

"  Enter  and  rest.  There  is  too  much  change 
and  stir.  Eest  is  good.  No  one  is  within  but 
Oswif,  and  he  will  not  speak.  As  for  me,  I  am 
grown  tired,  and  cannot  vex  you  much." 

She  stepped  aside  then,  and  the  dark  shadows 
of  the  porch  hid  her  black  dress  from  view,  but 


232  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  silent  throng  passed  into  the  dim-lighted 
hall,  afraid  to  look  upon  her  face. 

Bodli  went  last  of  all,  clashing  through  the 
stone  porch  ;  but  he  paused  before  he  had  quite 
passed  over  the  threshold,  and,  turning  slowly 
around,  tried  to  see  her  face  in  the  darkness. 

"  Your  will  is  done,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  enough 
alone,  as  I  am?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  did  it  for  your  sake,  Gudrun.  Speak  one 
word  to  me  before  I  am  crushed  to  death  by  my 
shame." 

Then  she  reached  out  her  hand  toward  the 
place  where  he  stood,  but  did  not  touch  him, 
and  he  never  knew  whether  she  meant  to  ex- 
press her  pity  or  to  thrust  him  farther  from  her. 

Soon  the  bearers  and  their  followers  came  tram- 
pling slowly  out,  and  Bodli  shrank  back  against 
the  wall  to  let  them  pass.  When  the  last  one 
was  gone  he  looked  again  for  her,  but  he  stood 
quite  alone  in  the  dim  twilight.  He  listened 
yearningl}'-  to  the  noises  within,  but  he  did  not 
dare  to  follow  her. 

He  lingered  there,  hoping  for  some  favorable 
sound,  till  the  moon  began  to  shine  under  the 
porch  eaves ;  but  he  heard  little,  save  the  faint 
clink  of  his  own  mail  as  he  stirred  restlessly 
about  the  stone  pavement. 

"  Can  she  have  died  with  grief?"  he  wildly 


The  Lovers  of  Gudrun.  233 

thought.  "  Oh  that  she  might  still  say  one  little 
word  to  me  who  love  her  so !" 

But  he  peered  in  vain  through  the  dark 
reaches  of  the  hall.  There  was  not  a  sound, 
not  a  movement.  At  last  he  turned  lingeringly 
away,  and  his  steel  war-gear  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  open  moonlight. 

Then  there  came  a  loud  wail  out  of  the  dead 
hush  of  the  hall,  and  the  house-carles  hurried 
through  the  gloom  with  flaring  torches. 

They  came  out  into  the  porch,  seeking  for 
the  cause  of  the  cry ;  but  Bodli  knew  in  his 
heart  that  it  was  Gudrun's  cry  of  despair,  and, 
smitten  with  a  dreadful  terror,  he  fled  away 
into  the  night. 

Bodli  came  back  to  Bathstead  before  the  Herd- 
holt  folk  removed  their  fallen  kinsman  to  a 
grave  in  his  own  stead,  but  he  was  little  loved 
by  any  soul  of  either  household,  and  at  last  he 
met  death  in  manly  warfare,  fighting  against 
his  many  foes. 

Now,  after  Bodli  was  slain,  and  after  Oswif 
had  passed  away  in  peace,  the  dale  grew  too 
fearful  and  full  of  sad  memories  for  Gudrun 
longer  to  remain  there,  and  she  exchanged  Bath- 
stead  for  Snorri's  hall  at  Holyfell.  There  she 
dwelt  with  Bodli's  grown  sons  about  her,  and 
took  to  her  side  one  day,  in  fulfilment  of  Guest's 
prophecy,  another  husband;  but  he,  too,  went 

20* 


234  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

to  the  grave  before  her,  and  she  who  had  grown 
blind  as  she  grew  in  years  was  "again  alone  for 
all  the  long  days  to  come. 

But  once  on  a  summer  evening  as  Gudrun 
Bat  in  Holy  fell,  with  another  Bodli  there  beside 
her,  a  travelled  and  mighty  man  in  gay  rai- 
ment, he,  perhaps  growing  weary  of  that  tran- 
quil life,  stirred  and  sighed  heavily. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  awhile  ago  it  came  into 
my  mind  to  ask  you  something.  You  have  loved 
me  well,  and  this  is  no  great  thing  to  reveal  to 
one  who  loves  you." 

She  smiled,  with  her  sightless  eyes  turned  on 
him,  but  did  not  answer.     Then  he  went  on  : 

"  Which  of  the  men  you  knew, — who  are  dead 
long  ago,  mother, — which  did  you  love  the  best?" 

Her  thin  hands  pressed  one  on  the  other,  and 
her  face  quivered,  as  if  some  memory  struffded 
within  her. 

"  Ah,  son !  the  years  go  by.  When  we  are 
young,  we  call  this  or  that  one  the  worst  we  can 
ever  know.  But  yet,  as  time  passes,  there  comes 
a  day  when  the  old  sorrows  are  fair  and  sweet 
to  what  we  must  then  endure.  '  Evil  is  bettered 
by  the  evil  that  follows  it,'  says  the  saw." 

They  were  both  silent  a  little  space,  then  she 
spoke  once  more : 

"Easy  enough  to  tell  about  them,  son,  for  my 


Lovers  of  Gudrun.  235 

memory  is  unbroken.  Thorkel  was  a  great 
chief,  bounteous  and  wise.  Bodli,  your  sire,  was 
mighty  ;  you  would  have  loved  him  well.  Thord, 
my  husband,  was  a  great  man,  eminent  at  the 
council-board ;  and  Thorwald, — he  was  a  rash, 
weak  heart,  like  a  stinging  weed  that  must  be 
pulled  up.     Ah,  that  was  long,  long  ago." 

Bodli  smiled. 

"  You  do  not  speak  your  true  thought,  mother. 
I  know  these  things  well." 

"  Alas,  son,"  she  said,  "  you  ask  of  love.  Folly 
lasts  long ;  still  that  word  moves  my  old,  worn 
heart." 

She  turned  till  her  sightless  eyes  gazed  as 
though  the  wall  and  the  hills  had  melted  away, 
showing  her  Herdholt  in  the  soft  twilight.  Then 
she  passionately  stretched  out  her  hands  as  if  to 
embrace  all  she  had  lost. 

"  Oh,  son,"  she  wailed  "  I  did  the  worst  to  him 
I  loved  the  most !" 


END   OP  THE   FIRST   BOOK. 


THE  SECOND  BOOK. 


:A<^'CI WAA'X    01^^.0 A  ,tVA 'A A .\ \ 


A  I. /RED,   LORD    T/uVN'VSOA'. 


Ik 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON. 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


I. 

Beyond  a  break  in  the  cliff,  and  above  the 
yellow  beach,  where  the  waves  foam  in  to  shore, 
lie  some  red  roofs  clustered  about  a  narrow 
wharf.  Then  comes  a  mouldered  church,  and, 
higher  yet,  a  long  street  that  climbs  towards  a 
mill  with  a  tall  tower.  Behind  these  again,  and 
standing  clear  against  the  sky,  are  a  gray  down, 
with  Danish  barrows,  and  a  hazelwood  which 
rises  out  of  the  down. 

Here,  among  the  waste  lumber  and  coils  of 
rope,  fishing-nets,  rusty  anchors,  and  drawn-up 
boats,  three  children  played  together  a  hundred 
years  ago,  building  sand  castles  or  following  up 
and  flying  away  from  the  white  breakers.  They 
were  named  Annie  Lee,  the  prettiest  little  maid 
of  the  port ;  Philip  Eay,  the  miller's  son ;  and 
Enoch  Arden,  an  orphan,  son  of  a  rough  sailor 
who  had  been  lost  one  winter  in  a  storm. 

There  was  a  narrow  cave  in  the  cliff,  and 
there  the  children  played  at  keeping  house. 
One  day  Enoch  would  be  host,  and  the  next 

9 


10  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Philip,  but  Annie  was  always  mistress,  whoever 
might  be  master.  Then  sometimes  Enoch  got 
possession  and  held  it  for  a  whole  week. 

"  This  is  my  house  and  my  little  wife,"  he  said. 

"  Mine  too,"  Philip  hotly  returned. 

But  if  they  came  to  blows,  Enoch,  who  was 
larger  and  sturdier,  was  always  victor  in  the 
end,  and  Philip,  with  tears  in  his  blue  eyes, 
trembled  with  helpless  anger. 

"  I  hate  you,  Enoch !"  he  would  shriek  out. 

At  this  the  little  wife  would  fall  to  weeping 
for  company  and  beg  them  to  stop  quarrelling 
for  her  sake. 

"  I  will  be  a  little  wife  to  both  of  you,"  she 
sobbed  through  her  tears. 

But,  after  a  while,  when  the  dawn  of  childhood 
had  gone  well  towards  morning  and  Enoch  and 
Phihp  felt  a  new  warmth  of  life  in  their  veins, 
each  one  fixed  his  heart  on  Annie.  Enoch 
declared  his  love  to  her,  but  Philip  remained 
silent.  Annie  seemed  kinder  to  Philip,  but  she 
really  loved  Enoch,  though  she  did  not  know  it 
and  would  have  denied  it. 

From  that  time  forth  Enoch  had  but  one  pur- 
pose in  life.  He  hoarded  all  his  savings  to 
the  utmost  farthing  to  buy  a  boat  and  make  a 
home  for  Annie.  He  prosjDered  well,  and  along 
the  whole  coast  there  was  not  a  luckier  or 
bolder  fisherman.     He  also  served  a  year  on 


Enoch  Arden.  11 

board  a  inercliantinan  and  made  himself  a  full 
sailor.  More  than  once  he  had  saved  a  life,  and 
all  his  comrades  were  proud  of  him.  Then,  be- 
fore he  had  reached  his  twenty-first  year,  Enoch 
bought  his  own  boat  and  made  a  home  for 
Annie.  It  was  a  neat  little  nest,  perched  half- 
way up  the  narrow  street  towards  the  mill. 

But  one  autumn  afternoon,  when  all  the 
younger  people  of  the  town  went  nutting  to  the 
hazelwood,  Philip,  whose  father  was  sick  and 
needed  him,  was  an  hour  late.  As  he  climbed 
the  hill  and  approached  the  edge  of  the  trees 
he  saw  Enoch  and  Annie,  who  were  sitting  there 
hand  in  hand.  Enoch's  large  gray  eyes  and 
weather-beaten  face  were  kindled  by  an  inward 
fire.  Philip  looked  in  their  faces  and  read  his 
doom.  Then,  as  they  drew  closer  together,  he 
groaned  and  slipped  away,  down  into  the  hol- 
lows of  the  wood,  like  a  thing  wounded.  He 
could  hear  the  merry  shouts  of  the  rest  come 
faintly  through  the  leaves,  but  to  him  it  was  a 
dark  hour.  He  rose  up  after  the  struggle  was 
subdued  and  went  down  to  his  home,  bearing 
an  insatiable  hunger  in  his  heart. 

Enoch  and  Annie  were  married  at  last,  and 
then  came  seven  happy  years  of  health  and 
plenty.  Their  earliest  child  was  a  daughter, 
and  Enoch,  when  he  heard  his  baby's  first  cry, 
resolved  to  save  all  he  could  to  give  her  a  better 


12        '  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

bringing-up'  than  his  or  his  wife's  had  been. 
The  wish  was  redoubled  when  a  boy  came  two 
years  later.  He  was  the  idol  of  Annie's  solitary 
life  while  Enoch  was  at  sea,  or  when  he  was 
journeying  inland  with  his  white  horse  and 
load  of  fish  for  the  neighbor  housewives. 

But  there  came  a  change  before  very  long. 
A  larger  haven  opened  ten  miles  farther  north, 
and  there  Enoch  was  accustomed  to  go  very 
often  by  sea  and  land.  Once,  when  he  was 
clambering  up  a  mast  at  that  place,  he  slipped 
and  fell.  When  he  was  lifted  from  the  deck  they 
found  he  had  broken  his  leg.  Then  while  he 
lay  in  the  town  there  recovering,  Annie  bore  him 
another  son,  which  was  meagre  and  sickly.  Some 
one  else  began  to  supply  Enoch's  customers 
during  his  absence,  and  his  trade  was  lost.  He 
was  a  God-fearing  man  enough,  yet  doubt  and 
gloom  seemed  to  fall  on  him.  In  his  painful 
inaction  he  seemed  to  see  his  children  leading 
low  and  miserable  lives  and  Annie  become  a 
beggar.  Then  he  prayed  that  Heaven  would 
save  them  from  this  fate  whatever  might  befall 
him  ;  and  even  while  he  was  praying  the  master 
of  the  ship  he  had  served  in,  having  heard  of 
his  accident,  came  and  offered  him  the  post  of 
boatswain.  He  knew  Enoch's  worth  and  valued 
him.  His  vessel,  he  said,  was  bound  for  China, 
and  wanted  only  a  boatswain  to  complete  her 


Enoch  Arden.  13 

crew.  Would  he  go  ?  There  were  a  good  many- 
weeks  yet  before  she  sailed,  and  she  would  leave 
from  that  port.  It  seemed  an  answer  to  the 
prayer,  and  Enoch  gladly  accepted  the  offer. 

Thus  the  dark  cloud  passed  away;  but  what 
were  the  wife  and  children  to  do  during  his 
absence  ?  Enoch  lay  pondering  a  long  time  on 
this  subject,  and  the  thought  of  selling  his  boat 
came  to  him.  He  loved  her  too  much  to  part 
with  her  without  a  pang.  He  had  weathered 
many  a  rough  sea  in  her  and  knew  her  every 
trait  as  a  rider  does  of  his  horse,  and  yet  the 
one  way  out  of  his  difficulty  was  to  sell  her. 
He  could  buy  goods  and  stores  then  and  set 
Annie  up  in  trade.  She  could  keep  the  house 
and  care  for  the  children  in  that  way  while  he 
was  'gone.  And  then  he  would  trade  himself 
out  yonder.  He  might  make  the  voyage  a 
number  of  times  and  return  rich  at  last.  Then 
he  would  be  the  master  of  a  larger  craft  and 
make  more  profit,  while  he  could  lead  a  much 
easier  life.  All  the  children,  too,  should  be  edu- 
cated, and  he  would  pass  his  days  among  them 
in  peace. 

Thus  Enoch  dreamed,  and  when  he  was  able 
to  walk  he  went  home.  Annie  was  nursing  the 
sickly  baby,  and  she  looked  very  pale  and  worn 
herself  But  she  started  forward  with  a  happy 
cry  when  he  appeared,  and  laid  the  baby  in  his 

2 


14  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

arms.  He  took  it  and  curiously  handled  all  its 
little  limbs.  Then  he  weighed  it  and  fondled  it 
with  father-like  caresses.  He  had  not  the  heart 
to  break  the  news  of  his  departure  to  Annie 
that  day.     He  waited  till  to-morrow. 

For  the  first  time  since  Enoch  had  put  the 
ring  on  her  finger  Annie  opposed  him.  She 
was  not  harsh  or  violent,  but  entreated  him 
with  tears  and  mournful  kisses  all  day  and  night 
long. 

"  Oh,  Enoch,  if  you  care  for  me  or  the  dear 
children,  do  not  go,  do  not  go !" 

But  because  he  did  care  for  her  and  the 
children  Enoch  resolved  to  go,  and  she  pleaded  in 
vain,  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  seafaring  friend 
for  the  time  and  went  to  buy  goods  to  set  Annie 
up  in  business.  His  hammer  and  axe  shook  their 
pretty  little  home  all  day  long  as  he  worked 
away  at  the  shelves  for  Annie's  stock  in  trade. 
To  Annie  herself  the  noise  sounded  like  the 
raising  of  her  own  scaffold.  But  at  last  all  was 
in  order,  though  the  space  was  narrow  enough, 
and  Enoch  went  to  bed  tired  out  with  his  work. 

The  next  morning  was  the  last  which  he 
could  spend  at  home ;  but  he  faced  it  boldly  and 
brightly.  He  laughed  Annie's  fears  away,  yet 
as  a  brave.  God-fearing  man  he  bowed  himself 
down  and  prayed  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and 
little  ones,  whatever  might  come  to  him. 


Enoch  Arden.  15 

"  Annie,"  he  said,  rising,  "  by  the  grace  of  God 
this  voyage  will  bring  us  all  fair  weather.  Keep 
a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for  me,  for  I'll 
be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it."  Then 
he  rocked  the  cradle.  "  And  he, — this  weakling, 
— I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it,  God  bless  him, — 
he  shall  sit  on  my  knees,  and  I'll  tell  him  tales 
of  foreign  ports  when  I  come  home.  He  shall 
be  merry  too.     Come,  Annie,  cheer  up  before  I 

go." 

At  his  hopeful  words  she  began  almost  her- 
self to  hope.  But  when  he  talked  more  gravely 
of  Providence  and  trust  in  Heaven  she  heard 
him  as  if  in  a  dream. 

"  Oh,  Enoch,"  she  cried,  "  you  are  wise,  and 
yet  for  all  your  wisdom  I  feel  I  shall  never  look 
into  your  face  again." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  look  into  yours, 
Annie.  The  ship  passes  here.  Get  a  seaman's  glass 
and  spy  out  my  face  and  laugh  your  fears  away." 

The  last  moments  came,  but  he  kept  his  as- 
sumed cheerfulness  till  the  end. 

"  Annie,  my  girl,  be  comforted,  cheer  up,"  he 
said  again  and  again.  "  Look  to  the  babies. 
Keep  things  ship-shape  till  I  come  back.  Have 
no  fear  for  me,  for  I  must  go.  Cast  your  fears 
on  God.     He  is  an  anchor  which  holds." 

Then  he  rose  from  where  he  had  been  sitting 
and  threw  his  strong  arms  about  Annie's  droop- 


16  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ing  neck.  He  kissed  the  little  ones  fervently 
and  fondly,  except  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 
was  asleep  after  a  restless  night.  To  him  he 
leaned  down  and  kissed  him  in  his  cradle.  Annie 
clipped  a  tiny  curl  from  the  little  one's  forehead 
and  gave  it  to  Enoch,  and  he  took  it  and  kept 
it  through  all  that  happened  to  him.  But  now 
he  hastily  caught  up  his  bundle,  waved  his  hand 
from  the  door,  and  went  his  way. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  vessel  to  go  by, 
Annie  borrowed  a  ship's  glass,  but  she  looked  in 
vain.  Perhaps  she  could  not  fix  it  to  suit  her 
eye,  or  perhaps  her  eye  was  dim  and  her  hand 
trembled.  At  all  events  she  did  not  see  him, 
even  though  he  stood  waving  on  deck.  In  a 
moment  the  ship  went  past  and  he  was  out  of 
sight  behind  the  cliffs. 

Then  when  the  last  dip  of  the  sail  had  quite 
vanished  she  turned  away,  weeping.  She 
mourned  him  as  one  who  had  died ;  but  she  did 
all  as  he  had  asked  her.  Nevertheless  she  did 
not  thrive  in  her  trade,  for  she  had  not  been 
bred  to  the  business  and  had  little  native 
shrewdness.  She  did  not  know  how  to  ask 
enough  for  her  wares,  nor  to  lie  when  it  was 
needful.  More  than  once  when  wants  pressed 
she  sold  for  less  than  the  goods  had  cost  her, 
wondering  all  the  while  what  Enoch  would  say. 

At  last  she  failed,  and  her  heart  was  broken. 


Enoch  Arden.  17 

She  expected  news  from  Enoch  day  by  day,  but 
it  never  came,  and  she  was  forced  to  gain  a  poor 
sustenance  with  hard  work,  while  she  lived  a 
life  of  silent  endurance. 

The  third  child,  which  was  born  sickly,  grew 
more  and  more  feeble,  but  she  cared  for  it  with 
all  a  mother's  tenderest  love.  Yet  her  daily 
work  called  her  often  away  from  it,  and  she 
could  not  spare  the  money  to  get  it  what  it  most 
needed,  nor  to  engage  a  doctor.  After  a  linger- 
ing weakness,  and  before  she  was  aware  of  it, 
the  innocent  little  soul  suddenly  escaped  like  a 
caged  bird  and  flitted  away. 

Now,  since  Enoch  had  left,  Philip  had  never 
seen  Annie,  but  when  he  heard  that  the  little 
child  had  died,  his  heart  accused  him  for  having 
neglected  her  so  long. 

"  Surely,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  there  is  no  harm 
in  seeing  her  now.  I  may  be  of  some  little  com- 
fort to  her." 

He  went  therefore  to  Annie's  cottage,  and, 
passing  through  the  bare  little  front  room, 
paused  a  moment  with  a  new  emotion  at  an 
inner  door.  He  knocked,  and,  no  one  coming 
to  open  it  to  him,  entered  uninvited. 

Annie  sat  there,  fresh  from  the  burial  of  her 
child,  and  did  not  care  to  see  any  human  face. 
Her  own  face  was  turned  towards  the  wall,  and 
she  was  weeping  silently. 
II.— 6  2* 

1 


18  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Philip  faltered  on  the  threshold.  "  Annie," 
he  said  at  last, — "I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you." 

"  What  favor  can  you  hope  for  from  one  so 
sad  and  forlorn  ?"  she  groaned. 

He  was  abashed  by  her  reply,  but  with- 
out being  asked  he  sat  down  beside  her,  his 
bashfulness  and  tenderness  struggling  within 
him. 

"  I  came  to  speak,  Annie,"  he  said  in  a  falter- 
ing voice,  "  of  what  he — of  what  Enoch,  your 
husband,  wished.  I've  always  said  you  chose 
the  best  man  among  us,  strong  and  resolute. 
And  why  did  he  go  away  and  leave  you  ?  Only 
for  the  wherewithal  to  provide  for  his  little 
ones,  to  give  them  a  better  bringing  up  than  his 
had  been, — that  was  his  wish  ;  and  if  he  comes 
back  again,  he  will  be  vexed  to  find  all  the 
precious  morning  hours  lost.  It  would  torture 
him  even  in  his  grave  if  he  thought  his  children 
were  running  wild  here  about  the  waste.  So, 
Annie,  we've  known  each  other  all  our  lives, 
haven't  we  ?  Now  don't  say  no  to  what  I  am 
going  to  propose.  Enoch  can  repay  me  when 
he  comes  back  if  you  will  have  it  so,  Annie. 
I  am  rich,  you  know.  Let  me  put  the  boy  and 
girl  to  school." 

Annie  leaned  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 
and  did  not  turn. 


Enoch  Arden.  19 

"I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face,  Philip,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  sad  and  foolish.  When  you 
came  in  I  was  broken  down  by  my  sorrow, 
and  now  your  kindness  breaks  me  down  again. 
But  I  know  Enoch  is  alive.  He  will  repay 
you, — money  can  be  repaid ;  but  your  kindness 
never  can." 

"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ?"  asked  Philip. 

She  turned  now  and  rose  from  her  seat,  fix- 
ing her  swimming  eyes  on  him.  Then  she 
called  down  a  blessing  on  his  generous  head  and 
wrung  his  hand  passionately.  They  passed  into 
the  little  garth  beyond  the  door,  and  he  went 
away  lifted  up  mightily  in  spirit.  Thus  Philip 
came  to  have  the  boy  and  girl  put  to  school, 
and  he  bought  them  all  the  needful  books,  and 
acted  in  every  way  as  if  they  were  his  own 
children.  For  Annie's  sake  he  seldom  went 
down  to  see  her.  He  sent  her  gifts  by  the 
children  of  garden-herbs,  and  fruit,  and  roses, 
or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then 
some  flour  from  his  tall  mill,  which  he  offered 
because  it  was  so  fine  in  the  meal,  thus  disguising 
his  charitable  purpose. 

Philip  never  knew  what  was  in  Annie's 
mind.  She  could  scarcely  utter  the  broken 
words  of  thanks  out  of  her  full  heart  when  he 
met  her.  Yet  he  was  all  in  all  to  the  children. 
They  would  run  from  distant  corners  of  the 


20  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

street  to  greet  him  and  receive  his  hearty  wel- 
come. They  were  lords  of  his  house  and  mill  and 
went  to  him  with  all  their  wrongs  or  pleasures. 
They  hung  on  him,  and  played  with  him,  and 
always  called  him  Father  Philip.  He  gained 
their  love  as  Enoch  lost  it ;  for  their  real  father 
was  like  a  vision  or  a  dream  to  them.  No  news 
had  come  from  him  for  ten  long  years. 

One  evening  Annie's  children  coaxed  her  to 
go  nutting  to  the  wood  with  them,  and  she  said 
she  would.  Then  they  begged  for  Father  Philip 
also,  and  went  and  found  him  at  the  mill,  like 
a  bee  in  blossom-dust. 

"  Come,  Father  Philip,  we  are  going  nutting," 
they  cried. 

But  he  would  not  go.  Then  they  tugged  at 
him  playfully,  and  begged  so  hard  that  he 
laughed  and  went  along.  Was  not  she  with 
them  ?  he  thought  to  himself. 

After  climbing  half-way  up  the  down  just  to 
where  the  wood  began,  Annie's  strength  failed 
her,  and  she  sank  to  the  ground  with  a  sigh. 

"  Let  me  rest  here,"  she  said,  wearily. 

Philip  was  well  content  to  do  so,  and  he  sat 
beside  her,  while  the  younger  ones  broke  away 
with  gleeful  cries  into  the  hazels  and  dispersed 
in  search  of  nuts,  calling  to  each  other  about  the 
wood  at  each  lucky  find. 

Philip  forgot   everything  about   him  seated 


Enoch  Arden.  21 

there  by  her  side.  He  remembered  nothing  but 
one  dark  hour  he  had  spent  there  in  the  wood, 
when  he  had  crept  into  the  shadow  to  give  way 
to  his  grief. 

"  Listen,  Annie,"  at  last  he  said,  lifting  up  his 
honest  forehead,  "  how  merry  they  are  down 
yonder.  Tired,  Annie  ?"  he  asked,  for  she  did 
not  answer, — "  tired  ?" 

Her  face  had  fallen  on  her  hands,  and  she  was 
still  silent. 

Then,  with  a  kind  of  uncontrollable  anger, 
he  spoke  in  a  different  voice  : 

"  The  ship  was  lost,  the  ship  was  lost ! 
Why  should  you  kill  yourself  and  keep  them 
orphans  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  of  that,"  said  Annie ; ,"  but,  I 
do  not  know  why,  somehow  their  voices  made 
me  feel  so  solitary." 

Philip  drew  closer.  "  Annie,"  he  said,  "  there 
is  a  thing  upon  my  mind,  and  it  has  been  so 
long  there  that  although  I  do  not  know  when 
it  first  came,  yet  I  know  it  must  out  at  last. 
Oh,  Annie,  it  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all 
chance,  that  he  should  still  be  alive.  Let  me 
speak,  then.  I  grieve,  oh,  so  deeply,  to  see 
you  poor  and  wanting  help.  I  can  never  help 
you  as  I  would  like — unless — perhaps  you  know 
what  I  want  you  to  know, — I  wish  you  were 
my  wife,  Annie.     I  would  be  a  father  to  your 


22  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

children.  They  love  me  already,  I  think,  as  a 
father.  I'm  sure  I  love  them  as  if  they  were 
my  own  ;  and  I  believe  that,  even  after  all  these 
uncertain  years,  we  might  still  be  happy  if  you 
were  my  wife.  Think  of  it.  I  am  well-to-do ; 
I  have  neither  kin  nor  care,  and  we  have  known 
each  other  all  our  lives.  And,  Annie,  I've  loved 
you  longer  than  you  ever  knew." 

Annie  spoke  tenderly,  for  she  was  deeply 
thankful  to  Philij). 

"  You  have  been  like  God's  good  angel  to  us, 
Philip.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  reward  you 
with  something  far  happier  than  I.  Can  one 
love  twice  ?  Could  you  ever  be  loved  as  Enoch 
was  ?    "What  do  you  ask  ?" 

"I  am  content  to  be  loved  a  little  after 
Enoch,"  he  said. 

"Dear  Philip,  wait  awhile,"  she  said,  as  if 
she  were  beginning  to  be  scared.  "  If  Enoch 
comes — yet  he  will  not  come.  Yet,  wait  a  year, — 
a  year  is  not  long.  Surely  I'll  be  wiser  in  a 
year." 

"  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life,  I  may 
well  wait  a  little  longer." 

"  Then  you  have  my  promise,"  she  said.  "  In 
a  year." 

And  Philip  repeated,  ''In  a  year." 

Both  were  silent,  till,  glancing  up,  Philip  saw 
the  streaming  red  of  the    sunset    falling  in 


Enoch  Arden.  23 

through  the  trees.  He  rose  then,  fearing  the 
night  and  chill  would  do  Annie  harm.  He 
called  loudly  up  the  wood,  and  the  children 
came  running  in,  laden  with  spoil.  All  went 
down  to  the  port;  and  at  Annie's  door  Philip 
paused  and  gave  her  his  hand. 

"  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you,"  he  said,  gently, 
"  that  was  an  hour  of  weakness.  I  was  wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you ;  but  you  are  free." 

The  tears  came  into  Annie's  eyes.  "No, 
Philip,  I  am  bound,"  she  said. 

II. 

The  autumn  went  and  another  autumn  came 
before  Annie,  in  the  round  of  her  household 
duties,  realized  that  a  year  had  passed.  Dwell- 
ing day  by  day  on  Philip's  words,  that  he  had 
loved  her  longer  than  she  knew,  she  seemed  to 
forget  the  passage  of  time ;  and  now,  once  again, 
he  stood  at  her  door  claiming  a  fulfilment  of  her 
promise. 

"  Is  it  a  year  already  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  if  the  nuts  are  ripe  again.  Come  out 
and  see,"  he  said. 

But  she  put  him  off.  She  had  bo  much  to 
look  after,  and  then  it  would  be  such  a  change. 
"  Give  me  another  month,  Philip,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  we  are  bound  by  our  promise ;  but  just 
a  month, — no  more." 


24  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Philip's  eyes  were  full  of  his  lifelong  hunger, 
and  his  voice  shook  a  little  as  a  drunkard's  hand 
will. 

"  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own 
time,"  he  said. 

She  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him.  Yet 
she  held  him  on  with  excuse  after  excuse,  test- 
ing his  faithfulness  and  truth,  till  another  half- 
year  had  slipped  away. 

By  this  time  the  gossips  of  the  port  began 
to  chafe  as  if  a  personal  wrong  had  been  done 
them.  Nothing  distresses  the  species  more  than 
to  have  a  calculation  miscarry,  and  all  their 
fine  prophecies  about  Philip  and  Annie  seemed 
to  be  coming  entirely  to  naught.  vSome  thought 
Philip  was  trifling  with  her,  others  that  she  held 
him  off  simply  to  draw  him  on.  Others  laughed 
at  them  as  dallying  people  who  did  not  know 
their  own  minds.  One,  a  little  bolder  and  more 
sinister  than  the  rest,  even  hinted  at  a  worse 
thing. 

Annie's  own  son  was  silent,  though  he  often 
enough  expressed  his  wishes  by  his  looks.  But 
her  daughter  continually  pressed  her  to  marry 
Philip,  who  was  so  dear  to  all  of  them,  and 
hft  the  household  out  of  its  poverty.  Philip's 
rosy  face  grew  pale  and  careworn  with  the  sus- 
pense, and  all  these  things  fell  upon  Annie  with 
a  sharp  reproach. 


Enoch  Arden.  25 

At  last  one  night  it  happened  that  Annie 
could  not  sleep,  and  lying  in  bed  she  prayed  for 
a  sign  from  Enoch.  Then,  in  the  depth  of  the 
darkness,  urged  by  the  expectant  terror  in  her 
heart,  she  started  up  and  struck  a  light.  She 
found  the  Bible  and  let  her  finger  fall  suddenly 
on  the  text,  where  it  chanced  to  open. 

"  Under  the  palm-tree"  were  the  words  she 
first  touched;  but  they  conveyed  no  meaning 
to  her,  and  she  sadly  closed  the  book  and  went 
back  to  bed. 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  she  dreamed  of  Enoch 
sitting  on  a  height  under  a  palm-tree  with  the^ 
sun  above  him. 

"  He  is  gone,"  she  thought ;  "  he  is  happy  up 
there,  singing  '  Hosanna  in  the  highest.'  The 
sun  of  Righteousness  is  above  him,  and  the 
palms  are  those  the  people  were  strewing  while 
they  cried  '  Hosanna  in  the  highest.'  " 

Then  she  awoke  and  sent  for  Philip.  "  There 
is  no  reason  now  why  we  should  not  be  married," 
she  said  wildly  to  him. 

"Then  for  God's  sake,  for  both  our  sakes," he 
answered,  "  if  you  will  marry  me,  let  it  be  at 
once." 

So  Philip  and  Annie  were  married,  and  the 
bells  rang  merrily  through  the  port ;  but  Annie's 
heart  did  not  beat  in  unison  with  them.  She 
seemed  to  hear  a  footstep  falling  always  beside 

B  3 


26  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

her.  She  could  not  tell  where  it  came  from, 
nor  could  she  catch  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 
that  was  always  at  her  ear.  She  feared  to  be 
left  alone  at  home,  and  never  ventured  out  with- 
out company.  Before  she  entered,  too,  her  hand 
always  hesitated  on  the  latch  as  if  she  dreaded 
to  enter.  Philip  thought  he  knew  what  ailed 
her.  Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to 
women  in  her  state :  so,  when  her  child  was 
born,  she  was  herself  again.  She  was  a  mother 
as  of  old,  and  Philip  was  all  in  all  to  her.  The 
mysterious  foreboding  wholly  disappeared  from 
her  mind. 

III. 

But  where  was  Enoch?  The  ship  "Good 
Fortune"  sailed  prosperously  away,  and  at  set- 
ting forth  met  with  some  severe  storms  in 
the  Bay  of  Biscay.  Unharmed  by  these,  she 
slipped  across  the  Equator,  and,  after  a  long 
tumble  about  the  Cape,  passed  again  through 
the  summer  world  in  the  opposite  hemisphere, 
and  finally  made  anchor  in  her  Oriental  haven, 

Enoch  traded  there  for  himself,  and  bought 
such  curiosities  as  were  salable  in  the  home 
markets  at  that  time.  He  also  bought  a  gilded 
dragon  for  his  babies. 

But  the  return  voyage  was  less  lucky  than 
the  outward  passage.     At  first,  the  good  ship 


Enoch  Arden.  27 

floated  day  by  day  through  the  fair  eea-circles 
of  that  latitude,  scarcely  sending  a  ripple  from 
her  bows.  Then  there  were  long  calms,  then 
variable  and  baffling  winds.  At  last  there 
came  a  storm  which  drove  her  onward  until  one 
day,  just  as  the  lookout  cried,  "  Breakers  ahead  !" 
there  was  crash  and  ruin,  and  all  were  lost 
but  Enoch  and  two  others.  They  drifted  half 
the  night  on  broken  tackle  and  spars,  and  in  the 
early  morning  were  cast  on  an  island  which  was 
rich  with  vegetation,  but  seemed  the  loneliest 
spot  in  that  far-away  sea. 

There  was  no  lack  of  human  sustenance  in 
the  place,  soft  fruits  and  great  nuts  or  nourish- 
ing roots ;  nor  was  it  hard  to  capture  the  help- 
less animals,  which  were  so  wild  that  they  were 
tame.  The  three  who  were  wrecked  built  a 
rude  hut  in  a  seaward-looking  gorge  of  the 
mountains,  which  they  thatched  with  palm- 
leaves.  Here  they  lived  amid  an  Eden  of 
plenty;  but  they  were  ill  content  with  their 
solitary  lot,  and  longed  for  home. 

The  youngest  of  the  party,  hardly  more 
than  a  boy,  who  had  been  hurt  on  the  night  of 
the  wreck,  lingered  on  for  five  weary  years  in 
a  kind  of  living  death.  The  others  could  not 
leave  him,  and  made  no  effort  to  depart  while 
he  survived.  After  he  was  gone,  the  two  re- 
maining found  a  fallen  trunk,  which  Enoch's 


28  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

comrade  attempted  to  hollow  out  with  fire  after 
the  Indian  fashion  ;  but  he  was  sunstruck  at  his 
work  and  died,  leaving  Enoch  all  alone.  In 
these  two  deaths  the  deserted  mariner  seemed 
to  read  God's  warning  to  wait. 

Enoch  daily  saw  the  mountain,  wooded  up  to 
its  peak,  and  winding  lawns  and  glades  high  on 
the  slope,  as  if  they  were  pathways  to  heaven. 
There  was  the  drooping  crown  of  plumes  on  the 
slender  cocoa,  and,  through  the  foliage,  the  light- 
ning-like flash  of  birds  and  insects.  Then,  too,  the 
lustre  of  long  convolvuluses  that  coiled  around 
stately  trunks  and  ran  out  to  the  very  limit  of 
the  land.  He  saw  all  these,  but  what  he  de- 
sired with  all  his  heart  to  see  and  hear — a 
kindly  human  face  and  a  sympathetic  voice — 
he  was  denied.  He  heard  only  the  shrieks  of 
ocean  fowl,  and  the  roller,  a  league  long,  thun- 
dering out  on  the  reef;  or  he  could  listen,  nearer 
his  hut,  to  the  whisper  of  the  huge  trees  that 
blossomed  up  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep  of 
some  precipitous  rivulet  plunging  to  the  sea. 
He  ranged  up  and  down  the  shore  with  these 
sounds  in  his  ears  all  day  long,  or  sat  in  the 
gorge  by  his  hut  watching  forever  for  a  sail. 
The  sunrise  came  every  day,  broken  among  the 
palms  and  precipices,  with  a  blaze,  first  on  the 
eastern  waters,  then  day-long  on  his  island,  and 
finally  a  blaze  on  the  western  flood  j  then,  after- 


Enoch  Arden.  29 

"wards,  the  great  stars  would  globe  themselves  in 
the  sky,  and  the  ocean  would  bellow  with  a 
hollower  voice,  until  once  again  the  scarlet  sun- 
rise would  come, — but  no  sail  ever  came. 

Often  as  he  sat  watching  or  seeming  to  watch, 
the  golden  lizard  would  pause  upon  him.  A  phan- 
tom made  out  of  many  phantoms  haunted  him, 
or  he  himself  in  fancy  haunted  people,  or  things, 
or  places  he  had  known  at  home :  the  babies 
and  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house,  the 
climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes,  the  horse 
he  drove,  his  boat,  the  chilly  November  dawns, 
the  gentle  showers,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves  in 
autumn,  and  the  low  moan  of  his  native  seas. 

Once,  too,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears,  very 
faintly,  but  merrily,  very  for  away,  he  heard 
the  parish  bells  pealing.  Then,  though  he  did 
not  know  why,  he  started  up  shuddering,  and 
when  the  beautiful  but  hated  island  returned 
upon  him,  if  his  poor  heart  had  not  spoken  of 
the  Divinity  which,  being  everywhere,  lets  no 
one  who  speaks  with  Him  seem  alone,  he  would 
have  surely  died  of  solitude. 

Thus,  over  Enoch's  head,  silvering  early  with 
grief,  the  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 
went  year  after  year.  His  hope  one  day  to  seQ 
his  family  and  to  pace  the  old  familiar  fields  had 
not  yet  entirely  perished,  when  his  lonely  doom 
came  suddenly  to  an  end. 

3* 


30  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Another  ship,  blown  from  her  course  by  baffling 
winds  like  the  "  Good  Fortune,"  anchored  near 
the  island,  not  knowing  what  land  she  had 
reached.  At  early  dawn  the  mate  had  seen  the 
streams  falling  down  the  inland  hills,  and  had 
sent  a  crew  to  find  water.  They  landed  and 
burst  away  towards  the  water,  filling  the  island 
with  unaccustomed  noises. 

The  long-haired  and  long-bearded  solitary 
stepped  down  from  his  mountain  gorge,  looking 
brown  and  hardly  human.  He  was  strangely 
clad,  and  muttered  and  mumbled  like  an  idiot 
with  inarticulate  rage,  making  signs  the  while 
which  the  sailors  could  not  understand.  Yet 
he  led  the  way  to  the  rivulets  of  sweetest  water, 
and  as  he  mingled  with  the  men  and  heard 
theni  talking,  his  long-silent  tongue  was  loosened 
and  he  made  them  understand  him.  When 
their  casks  were  filled  they  took  Enoch  on 
board  with  them,  and  the  tale  he  told  in 
broken  words  was  at  first  scarcely  credited,  but 
it  more  and  more  amazed  and  melted  all  who 
listened  to  it,  and  his  very  looks  convinced  his 
hearers  of  the  calamity  he  had  suffered. 

They  gave  him  clothes  and  a  free  passage 
home,  but  he  often  worked  among  the  rest  to 
shake  off  his  isolation.  None  of  the  crew 
came  from  his  own  country  or  could  answer  his 
questions  about  his  home.    The  voyage  was  dull, 


Enoch  Arden.  31 

and  they  endured  long  delays,  for  the  vessel 
was  scarcely  sea-worthy.  But  Enoch's  fancy  fled 
away  week  after  week  before  the  lazy  wind,  till 
one  day,  like  a  lover  beneath  a  clouded  moon, 
he  drew  in  through  all  his  blood  the  morning 
breath  of  England.  On  that  same  morning  the 
oflScers  and  men  collected  a  purse  among  them- 
selves and  gave  it  to  Enoch  out  of  pity  for  his 
loneliness.  Then  they  sailed  up  the  coast  and 
landed  him  in  the  very  harbor  whence,  so  many 
years  ago,  he  had  parted. 

Enoch  spoke  not  a  word  to  any  one,  but  started 
homeward.  Home, — what  home?  had  he  a 
home?  The  afternoon  was  bright  and  sunny, 
but  very  chill.  After  a  while  the  fogs  began  to 
roll  in  through  the  chasms  of  the  hills,  and  they 
soon  wrapped  the  landscape  in  gray.  The  high- 
way on  before  him  was  cut  off  from  Enoch's 
sight  as  he  trudged  forward,  and  only  a  narrow 
breadth  of  holt  or  pasturage  on  either  hand 
was  left  visible  to  him.  The  robin  piped  dis- 
consolately on  the  almost  naked  trees,  and  the 
sodden  weight  of  the  dead  leaves  bore  them 
down  through  the  dripping  haze.  The  drizzle 
grew  thicker  and  the  gloom  deeper.  At  last  it 
seemed  to  Enoch  as  if  a  great  mist-blotted  light 
flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place  he 
sought. 

Then,  having  stolen  down  the  long  street,  his 


32  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

heart  foreshadowing  some  ealaniity  and  his  eyes 
on  the  stones,  he  reached  the  house  where 
Annie  had  lived  and  loved  him,  and  where  his 
babies,  in  those  far-off  happy  seven  years,  were 
born. 

Finding  there  neither  light  nor  murmur, — a 
bill  of  sale  showed  through  the  drizzle, — he 
crept  on  downward,  thinking  they  were  dead, 
or  at  least  dead  to  him. 

He  went  down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf, 
seeking  for  a  tavern  which  he  had  known  of 
old.  It  had  had  a  front  of  crossed  timbers  of 
ancient  fashion,  and  was  propped  up,  and 
worm-eaten,  and  ruinous.  He  thought  it  must 
have  vanished ;  but  only  the  landlord  had  van- 
ished who  once  kept  it,  and  his  widow,  Miriam 
Lane,  kept  it  now  with  profits  that  dwindled 
daily.  It  was  once  a  haunt  of  brawling  seamen, 
but  now  was  silent,  though  it  still  offered  a  bed 
to  wayfarers.  Here  Enoch  rested  quietly  for 
many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane,  the  landlady,  was  good  and 
garrulous,  and  would  not  let  him  be.  She  often 
broke  in  upon  his  solitary  musing,  and  once  she 
told  him,  among  other  annals  of  the  port, — 
Enoch  was  so  bowed  and  brown,  so  utterly 
broken, — the  whole  story  of  his  house :  his  baby's 
death,  Annie's  growing  poverty,  how  Philip  put 
her  children  to    school   and  kept  them  there, 


Enoch  Arden.  33 

how  he  wooed  her  so  long,  and  how  she  finally 
consented,  the  marriage,  and  the  birth  of  Philip's 
child. 

No  shadow  passed  over  Enoch's  countenance, 
and  he  did  not  make  a  motion.  Any  one  who 
regarded  him  well  would  have  thought  that  he 
felt  the  tale  less  than  the  teller  did ;  only,  when 
she  came  to  the  end, — 

"Enoch,  poor  man,  he  was  cast  away  and 
lost." 

Then  he  shook  his  gray  head  pathetically  and 
repeated,  "  Cast  away  and  lost." 

Once  more,  after  a  pause,  he  said,  in  a  deeper 
inward  whisper,  "  Lost." 

But  he  yearned  to  see  Annie's  face  again. 

"  If  I  might  only  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
and  know  that  she  is  happy,"  he  murmured  to 
himself. 

The  thought  haunted  and  harassed  him  and 
drove  him  out  and  up  the  hill  at  evening,  when 
the  November  day  was  passing  into  a  duller 
twilight. 

There  he  sat  gazing  on  all  below,  and  a  thou- 
sand memories  rolled  in  upon  him  in  unspeak- 
able sadness.  By  and  by  the  ruddy  square  of 
light  which  streamed  from  the  rear  of  Philip's 
house  allured  him,  as  the  beacon-light  will  allure 
a  bird  of  passage  till  he  madly  strikes  it  and 
beats  out  his  life. 
II.— c 


34  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street,  the 
last  house  landward.  Behind  it,  with  a  gate 
that  opened  on  the  waste  beyond,  flourished  a 
little  garden.  Within  the  walled  enclosure  was 
an  ancient  yew-tree,  and  all  around  and  across 
ran  walks  paved  with  shingle.  Enoch  avoided 
the  middle  walk,  and  stole  up  by  the  wall,  be- 
hind the  yew-tree.  There  he  saw  what  he  might 
better  have  shunned,  if,  indeed,  griefs  like  his 
ever  have  any  worse  or  better. 

Silver  cups  sparkled  on  the  burnished  board 
in  the  reflected  glow  from  the  hearth.  On  the 
right  hand  of  the  fireside  he  saw  Philip,  the 
slighted  suitor  of  the  old  days,  stout  and  rosy, 
with  his  baby  across  his  knees.  Over  her  second 
father  leaned  a  girl  like  a  later  and  taller  Annie 
Lee.  She  was  fair-haired  and  slender,  and  she 
tossed  a  long  ribbon  with  a  ring  tied  to  it  to 
tempt  the  baby,  who  held  up  his  creasy  arms 
and  caught  at  it,  but  always  missed  it,  whereat 
they  all  laughed  gayly.  On  the  left  of  the  fire 
he  saw  the  mother,  who  often  glanced  towards 
her  baby.  She  turned  now  and  then  to  speak 
to  her  son,  who  stood  beside  her,  tall  and  strong, 
and  smiling  in  response  to  what  she  said  tg 
him. 

When  the  dead  man  come  to  life  saw  his  wife, 
who  was  no  longer  his  wife,  and  saw  the  baby 
that  was  hers  but  not  his  on  the  father's  knee ; 


Enoch  Arden.  35 

when  he  saw  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  and  the 
happiness,  and  his  own  children,  tall  and  beauti- 
ful, and  Philip  reigning  there  in  his  place,  lord 
of  his  rights  as  well  as  of  his  children's  love, 
then,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all 
beforehand,  he  staggered  and  shook,  caught  at 
the  yew-tree  branch,  striving  with  all  his  will  to 
hold  back  the  terrible  cry  he  longed  to  utter. 
He  knew  that  one  word  would  have  shattered 
all  the  happiness  about  that  hearth  like  a  blast 
of  doom. 

Softly  he  turned  away,  therefore,  like  a  thief, 
to  prevent  the  loose  shingle  from  grating  under 
his  feet.  He  felt  all  along  the  garden  wall,  fear- 
ing he  might  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found 
there  insensible.  He  crept  to  the  gate,  and 
opened  it  and  closed  it  as  lightly  as  he  would 
have  done  the  chamber  door  of  a  sick  man. 
Then  he  came  out  on  the  waste. 

He  would  have  knelt  there,  but  his  knees 
were  feeble,  and  he  fell  prone  and  dug  his  fingers 
into  the  wet  earth  and  prayed. 

='  Why,  why  did  they  take  me  away !  Oh,  too 
hard  to  bear !  O  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour, 
thou  that  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  island, 
Father,  uphold  me  here  in  my  loneliness  a  little 
longer.  Aid  me,  give  me  strength  not  to  tell 
her,  never,  never  to  let  her  know.  Help  me 
not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace.     My  children 


36  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

too!  They  know  me  not, — must  I  not  speak 
to  these  ?  jS^ever !  I  shoukl  betray  myself.  No 
father's  kiss  for  me, — the  girl  so  like  her 
mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son,  my  son !" 

Speech  and  thought  failed  him  a  little  while, 
and  he  lay  as  if  in  a  trance.  But  when  he 
rose,  by  and  by,  and  paced  back  towards  his 
solitary  home  again,  all  down  the  long,  narrow 
street  he  beat  the  burden  out  on  his  weary 
brain, — 

"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  entirely  unhappy.  His  resolve 
bore  him  up.  His  faith  was  firm,  and  prayer 
came  from  a  living  source  within,  like  a  fountain 
of  sweet  water  through  the  salt,  keeping  him  a 
living  soul. 

"  This  miller's  wife  you  spoke  about,"  he  said 
to  Miriam,  "  has  she  no  longer  any  fear  that 
her  first  husband  may  be  alive  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,"  said  Miriam,  "she  has 
fear  enough.  If  you  could  tell  her  that  you  had 
seen  him  dead  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to 
her." 

"  After  the  Lord  has  called  me,"  thought  Enoch 
within  himself,  "  she  shall  know.  I  will  wait 
His  time,  but  she  shall  know." 

He  set  himself  to  get  work  to  live  by.  He 
could  turn  his  hand  to  almost  anything.  He 
was  a  cooper  and  carpenter,  wove  fishing-nets, 


Enoch  Arden.  37 

or  helped  at  loading  and  unloading  the  ships 
which  brought  the  scanty  commerce  of  that 
day.  He  thus  earned  a  poor  living  sufficient 
for  himself;  but  as  he  did  not  care  for  himself, 
he  worked  without  hope,  and  there  was  little 
life  in  his  labor.  As  the  year  rolled  round  and 
the  day  when  he  had  returned  came  again,  a 
languor  overtook  him,  a  kind  of  gentle  sickness 
which  gradually  weakened  him,  till  he  could  no 
longer  work.  He  was  obliged  to  keep  in-doors 
first,  then  he  was  confined  to  his  chair,  and 
lastly  to  bed.  He  bore  his  sickness  very  cheer- 
fully, for  not  more  gladly  does  the  wrecked 
sailor  see  the  boat  approach  that  bears  him  the 
hope  of  life  than  Enoch  saw  death  dawning  on 
him,  the  close  of  all  his  troubles. 

There  was  one  gleam  of  kindly  hope  through 
the  darkness.  He  thought,  "  After  I  am  gone 
she  will  learn  how  I  loved  her  to  the  very 
last." 

One  day  he  called  for  Miriam  Lane.  "  Good 
woman,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  secret ;  but  you 
must  swear,  swear  on  the  book,  not  to  reveal  it 
till  I  am  dead." 

"  Dead,"  she  clamored.  "  Hear  him  talk !  I 
warrant,  man,  we'll  bring  you  round  soon 
enough." 

"Swear  on  the  book,"  repeated  Enoch, 
sternly. 

4 


38  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

So  Miriam,  a  little  frightened  by  his  voice 
and  look,  swore  as  he  desired. 

Then  Enoch  turned  his  gray  eyes  full  on  her. 
"  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Know  him  ?"  she  said.  "  I  knew  him  slightly. 
I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street.  Held  his 
head  high  and  cared  for  no  man." 

Enoch  answered  slowly  and  sadly :  "  His  head 
is  low  now,  and  no  man  cares  for  him.  I  think 
I  have  scarce  three  days  more  to  live,  and  I  am 
the  man." 

Miriam  gave  a  half-incredulous,  half-hyster- 
ical cry :  "  You,  Arden,  you !  No ;  sure  he  was 
a  foot  higher  than  you  be." 

"  God  has  bowed  me  down  to  what  I  am  now," 
said  Enoch.  "  My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken 
me.  Nevertheless  I  am  he  who  married — but 
her  name  has  been  changed  twice — I  married 
her  who  married  Philip  Eay.  Sit  down  now, 
and  listen." 

Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage  and  the 
wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back  and 
seeing  Annie,  his  resolve,  and  how  he  had  kept 
it. 

As  she  listened  her  tears  flowed  fast,  while 
she  yearned  in  her  heart  to  rush  out  and  tell 
the  whole  village  about  Enoch  Arden  and  his 
woes.    But  she  was  awed  by  the  man,  and  bound 


Enoch  Arden.  39 

by  oath  to  keep  silence,  and  she  forbore  to 
betray  him, 

"See  your  bairns  once  before  you  go.  Eh, 
now,  let  nie  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  was  all  she  said ; 
and  she  rose,  eager  to  brin^  them  down,  for  he 
seemed  to  hang  half  consentingly  for  a  moment 
on  her  words. 

But  his  will  conquered  in  the  end.  "  Woman," 
he  said,  "  do  not  disturb  me  now  at  the  last. 
Let  me  hold  to  my  purpose.  Sit  down  again, 
marlv  me  well,  and  understand  while  I  have  the 
power  to  speak.  I  charge  you  now  when  you 
see  her,  tell  her  I  died  blessing  her,  praying  for 
her,  loving  her;  save  for  the  bar  between  us, 
loving  her  as  when  she  first  laid  her  head  beside 
my  own.  And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom 
I  saw,  so  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
was  spent  in  blessing  and  praying  for  her.  Tell 
my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him.  Say  to  Philip 
that  I  blest  him  too.  He  never  meant  anything 
but  good  to  us.  And  if  my  children,  who  hardly 
knew  me  when  living,  care  to  see  me  dead,  let 
them  come ;  I  am  their  father.  But  she  must 
not  come,  for  my  dead  face  would  disturb  her 
after  life.  There  is  only  one  of  all  my  blood 
who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-bo.  This 
is  his  hair.  She  cut  it  off  and  gave  it  to  me, 
and  I  have  borne  it  about  all  these  years,  and 
thought  to  bear  it  to  the  grave  with  me.     But 


40  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  my  babe  in 
bliss.  When  I  am  gone,  therefore,  take  this  to 
her.  It  may  comfort  her.  It  will  be  a  token 
to  her  that  I  am  he  she  lost." 

He  ceased,  and  the  landlady  made  a  voluble 
answer,  promising  all  he  asked.  Once  more  he 
rolled  his  eyes  on  her  repeating  his  request, 
and  once  more  she  promised. 

The  third  night  after  this,  while  Enoch  slept 
pale  and  still  and  Miriam  was  watching  and 
dozing  at  intervals,  there  came  such  a  loud  roar 
from  the  sea  that  all  the  houses  in  the  village 
rang  with  it. 

Enoch  awoke  and  rose  up.  He  spread  his 
arms  wide,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice, — 

"A  sail!  a  sail!  lam  saved!"  Then  he  fell 
back  and  spoke  no  more. 

Thus  the  strong  and  heroic  soul  of  Enoch 
Arden  passed  away;  and  when  he  was  buried, 
the  little  port  had  seldom  seen  a  more  costly 
funeral. 


A  BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


A  BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


Gerard,  the  warrener,  sat  apart  at  the  de- 
serted table  in  the  lodge  of  Lord  Tresham's 
park,  while  all  the  rest  of  his  Lordship's  re- 
tainers crowded  to  the  window  which  looked 
out  towards  the  entrance  of  the  mansion.  Ge- 
rard's back  was  turned  to  the  table,  which  was 
filled  with  emptied  flagons  and  other  evidences 
of  holiday  revelling,  and  in  his  face  was  a  brood- 
ing look  which  contrasted  strongly  with  the 
gayety  pictured  in  the  countenances  of  his  fel- 
low-servants. 

It  was  a  notable  day  in  the  annals  of  Lord 
Tresham's  household,  for  his  great  neighbor,  the 
young  Earl  Mertoun,  was  coming  to  offer  his 
heart,  his  lands,  and  his  noble  name  to  Lady  Mil- 
dred Tresham,  sister  of  my  Lord.  Though  the 
estates  adjoined  each  other,  there  had  seldom, 
until  now,  been  much  intercourse  between  the 
families,  peers  as  they  were  in  wealth  and  station. 
The  offered  alliance  was  a  very  acceptable  one 
to  Lord  Tresham,  who  was  the  guardian  of  his 

43 


44  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Bister ;  but  he  had  not  seen  the  young  Earl,  and 
until  he  had  done  bo  he  could  come  to  no  deci- 
sion about  his  offer  of  marriage.  The  visit  was 
to  be  a  formal  one.  The  lady's  consent  had  not 
been  obtained,  nor  had  any  other  preliminaries 
been  arranged. 

Old  Gerard  was  unusually  morose  and  quiet 
that  day.  He  was  one  of  the  oldest  retainers 
of  the  Tresham  family,  and  was  looked  upon 
as  a  leader  in  the  servants'  hall.  He  was  al- 
lowed unusual  liberties  by  my  Lord  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  faithful  service,  and  he  was  an  oracle 
upon  all  that  related  to  the  family  history. 

The  throng  of  men  at  the  lodge  window 
looked  eagerly  down  the  avenue  which  led  to 
the  mansion  gates,  expecting  the  approach  of 
the  Earl  and  his  party,  while  out  on  the  lawn 
in  front  were  numerous  other  functionaries  of 
the  Tresham  household,  who  were  to  do  honor 
to  the  guests  when  they  arrived.  Old  Eichard, 
the  butler,  was  there,  white  staff  in  hand,  berib- 
boned,  and  ruddy  of  face,  and  not  a  little  awk- 
ward in  his  unusual  array.  Beside  and  about 
him  was  a  troop  of  varlets  in  silk  and  silver, 
who  were  constantly  moving  from  place  to  place 
with  the  restlessness  of  a  waiting  crowd. 

Every  now  and  then  an  expectant  movement 
would  run  through  the  group  outside  and  pass 
on  to  the  group  at  the  window.     Then  Philip, 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  45 

the  cook,  who  stood  tiptoe  on  the  window-scat, 
would  reach  eagerly  forward,  beckoning  the 
while  to  old  Gerard  and  urging  him  to  come  up 
and  have  a  look  at  the  Earl. 

Gerard  sat  stolidly  with  his  back  to  the  table 
and  fronting  those  at  the  window.  His  head 
was  bent  a  little  forward,  as  if  he  did  not  care 
to  see  the  faces  about  him,  and  his  hands  were  on 
his  knees  in  a  tight  grip. 

"  Here's  a  place  yet,  Gerard,"  called  the  cook. 
"Come  up  ;  they  are  near  now." 

"  Save  your  courtesies,  my  friend,"  growled 
the  old  man.  "  Here's  my  place,  and  here  I  mean 
to  stay." 

Then  one  and  another  fell  to  jeering  him  ; 
but  he  gave  them  sullen  answers  which  a  little 
cowed  them,  and  the  laugh  at  his  expense  passed 
into  an  uneasy  titter. 

At  last  the  Earl's  retinue  actually  arrived, 
and  the  men  in  the  lodge  went  fairly  wild  over 
it.  They  feared,  each  one,  that  in  some  respect — 
the  groom,  in  the  matter  of  horses  ;  the  falconer, 
in  the  matter  of  hawks — the  Earl's  equip- 
ment might  surpass  their  own.  "When  the  Earl 
got  down,  there  was  a  buzz  of  admiration  at  his 
youthful  beauty,  his  blue  eyes,  and  his  lithe 
and  manly  figure.  But  next  came  forth  Lord 
Tresham,  and  the  Earl  sank  into  nothingness 
in  the  esteem  of  his  servants  beside  him.     Old 


46  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Eichard  was  half  cursed  for  his  awkwardness, 
and  a  knave  behind  him  was  besought  in  a 
frantic  whisper  to  prick  him  upright,  so  much 
lower  he  bent  than  the  Earl's  retainer.  The 
horses  too  were  scanned  and  found  full  of 
defects ;  and  when  Gerard  feigned  to  take  part 
with  the  Earl's  men,  he  was  jeered  at  by  a  dozen 
voices  as  a  crab  and  a  churl. 

When  all  the  new-comers  were  alighted,  the 
company,  led  by  Lord  Tresham  and  the  Earl, 
moved  off  towards  the  entrance  of  the  mansion 
and  paced  slowly  into  the  great  saloon.  After  the 
last  retainer  had  disappeared  through  the  door, 
those  in  the  lodge  jumped  down  from  the  win- 
dow and  gathered  about  the  table  where  Gerard 
was  seated.  They  filled  up  the  flagons  and 
drained  a  stout  health  to  Lord  Tresham  and  his 
house. 

"  God  bless  Lord  Tresham,  Lady  Mildred,  and 
the  Earl,"  added  the  cook. 

"  Here,  Gerard,  reach  your  beaker." 

But  Gerard  kept  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
did  not  raise  his  head. 

"  Drink,  boys,"  he  said.  "Don't  mind  me.  All's 
not  right  with  me  to-day.     Drink  without  me." 

"  He's  vexed  that  he  let  the  sight  pass  without 
looking,"  said  a  yeoman.  "  Eemember,  Gerard," 
he  continued  in  a  louder  voice,  "  the  Earl  comes 
back  this  way.     You  can  see  him  then," 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  47 

"  This  way  ?"  asked  Gerard,  pointing  to  the 
window,  and  raising  his  hand  and  face  for  the 
first  time,  a  toil-worn  hand  and  a  bronzed  and 
wrinkled  face. 

"Just  so,"  said  the  other.     "  This  way." 

"  Then  my  way's  here,"  said  Gerard.  And  he 
rose  and  stalked  out  of  the  lodge. 

"  Old  Gerard  will  die  soon,  mark  my  word," 
said  the  same  yeoman.  "  Why,  it  used  to  be  he'd 
be  the  foremost  man  on  an  occasion  not  a 
quarter  as  important  as  this.  He  knows  more 
about  heraldry  than  a  king-at-arms.  But  see 
his  humor  now.     Die  he  will,  mark  me." 

"  God  help  him,"  said  the  cook.  "  But  who's 
for  the  great  servants'  hall  ?  It  joins  the  saloon, 
and  we  can  hear  what's  going  on  inside." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  approval ;  and  then, 
after  draining  each  a  pot  of  ale  to  the  honor  of 
the  house,  the  revellers  ran  across  the  lawn  and 
flocked  laughing  into  the  servants'  hall. 

II. 

When  the  Earl  arrived,  amid  a  group  of  his 
retainers,  all  in  gala  attire  and  handsomely 
mounted.  Lord  Tresham  came  forth,  through 
the  open  ranks  of  his  own  servants,  and  wel- 
comed him  as  he  descended  from  his  chariot. 
It  was  a  noble  meeting,  full  of  fine  courtesy, 


48  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  like  a  fair  picture  in  its  wealth  of  gay  color 
and  flashing  harness.  The  old  mansion  of  the 
Treshams  served  as  a  dim  and  stately  back- 
ground, and  the  ancient  trees  of  the  estate 
spread  above  the  heads  of  the  master  and  his 
guest  in  a  sheltering  canopy  of  green. 

AYhen  the  Earl  had  been  duly  -welcomed  by 
my  Lord,  old  Eichard  bowed  low  before  them, 
and  led  the  way  with  decrepit  dignity,  wielding 
his  white  staff  before  him,  and  shaking  all  his 
ribbons  and  rosettes,  into  the  great  saloon,  where 
Lord  Tresham's  brother  and  Lady  Gwendolen, 
his  cousin,  with  a  number  of  the  upper  ser- 
vants and  dependants,  were  clustered  to  meet 
the  Earl. 

The  company  paced  down  the  length  of  the 
long  wainscoted  hall  and  stopped  at  the  end. 
Lord  Tresham  walked  with  his  guest,  pointing 
out  to  him  the  ancestral  portraits  on  either 
hand,  until  at  last  they  arrived  in  front  of 
Austin  and  Lady  Gwendolen.  Here  the  march 
stopped,  and  the  crowd  of  followers  of  both 
houses  broke  into  groups  about  the  dimly-lighted 
old  hall  which  had  echoed  to  the  voices  of  gen- 
erations of  noble  Treshams. 

"  This,  my  Lord,"  said  Lord  Tresham,  "  is  my 
cousin,  the  Lady  Gwendolen." 

The  Earl  bent  low  arid  touched  his  lips  upon 
the  lady's  hand.     She  was  tall  and  dark,  and 


A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  49 

her  black  eyes  looked  searchingly  at  the  young 
man  as  he  greeted  her. 

Lord  Tresham  turned  towards  Austin. 

"  And  this,"  he  said,  "  is  my  brother  Austin. 
He  is  the  King's — and  Gwendolen's." 

The  Earl  bowed  to  Austin  Tresham,  looking 
askance  the  while  at  Gwendolen. 

"  You  have  made  a  noble  conquest  in  winning 
this  gallant  soldier,  lady,"  he  said. 

Lady  Gwendolen  cast  down  her  eyes :  "  And 
you,  my  Lord,  we  welcome  you,  and  give  you 
God-speed  in  your  own  quest." 

"  That  do  we  all,"  said  Lord  Tresham,  taking 
the  Earl's  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  speaking 
with  his  friendly  eyes  as  well  as  his  voice. 
"  Your  noble  name  would  win  you  a  welcome 
anywhere,  but  it  is  yourself  we  welcome  here." 

"  Thanks,  thanks,"  said  the  Earl,  with  a  dep- 
recating movement. 

"  But  add  to  that,"  went  on  Lord  Tresham, 
"  you  come  to  ue  with  a  fair  proposal  to  bring 
our  houses  into  closer  union.  Beheve  me,  we 
are  all  yours, — Austin,  Gwendolen,  all  my  peo- 
ple." And  his  lordship  waved  his  hand  towards 
the  admiring  groups  who  watched  this  cordial 
meeting  between  the  two  oldest  houses  in  the 
province. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  Lord,"  began  the  Earl,  "  less 
for  the  praise — though  I  take  it  to  my  heart — 
II.— c       d  6 


50  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

than  for  your  implied  indulgence  towards  the 
object  of  my  visit.  I  may  ask,  then,  may  I,  for 
the  gift  I  have  come  to  seek  ?  I  love  your  sis- 
ter, Lord  Tresham,  and  as  truly  as  you  would 
have  one  love  her, — even  more — more  than  you 
can  believe.  All  the  world  values  me  for  is 
yours  if  you  will  give  me,  my  true  self,  with- 
out a  title  or  a  rood  of  land,  that  lady.  Tell 
me,  in  one  word,  is  it  death  or  life  ?" 

Lady  Gwendolen  switched  her  fan  lightly  to 
her  face  and  leaned  towards  Austin. 

"  Now,  there's  loving,  Austin,"  she  whisj^ered. 

"  Oh,  he's  so  young,"  breathed  Austin  in  half 
a  laugh. 

"Young?  Old  enough,  I'll  wager,  to  know 
he  would  never  have  gained  an  entrance  here 
if  all  this  fear  and  trembling  had  been  needed." 

"  Hush !"  cautioned  Austin.  "  See  how  he 
blushes." 

"  Well,  that  must  be  true  love  indeed," 
answered  the  lady.  "  Ours  must  begin  over 
again." 

Lord  Tresham  and  his  guest  had  taken  seats 
during  this  whispered  colloquy,  and  now  Austin 
and  Lady  Gwendolen  also  sat  down  in  an  alcove 
near  an  open  casement  which  looked  out  upon 
the  sunlit  lawn  under  the  oak  boughs.  They 
were  within  ear-shot  of  the  Earl  and  Tresham, 
and  lost  no  word  of  what  they  said. 


A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  51 

His  Lordship  told  the  young  Earl  that  he 
was  fully  satisfied  with  his  advances  and  more 
than  satisfied  with  himself,  but  that  the  Lady 
Mildred's  hand  was  her  own  to  give  or  to  with- 
hold. He  said  he  would  encourage  the  suit  with 
all  his  heart  provided  the  lady  herself  found 
the  suitor  acceptable. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  asked,  with  a  quick  turn 
of  the  head  towards  the  Earl,  "  have  you  ever 
seen  the  Lady  Mildred?" 

Earl  Mertoun  seemed  a  little  confused  by  the 
abrupt  question  :  "  I — I — that  is,  my  Lord,  our 
estates  join,  yon  remember,  and  sometimes  I 
have  carelessly  wandered  across  the  border 
after  wounded  game.  Then — once  or  twice — I 
have  come  unawares  upon  the  lady's  wondrous 
beauty — and — I  have  seen  her  then." 

There  was  a  quick  sparkle  in  Lady  Gwen^ 
dolen's  black  e^^es.  Whether  it  was  half  of 
distrust  or  not,  it  was  a  penetrating  look,  and 
even  while  she  hid  her  lips  with  her  fan  her 
eyes  were  riveted  sidewise  upon  the  Earl. 

"  Notice  how  he  falters,  Austin,  that  when  a 
lady  passed  he,  having  eyes,  saw  her !  If  it 
had  been  you,  you  would  have  said,  'Yes,  I 
saw  her  on  such  a  day  and  scanned  her  from 
head  to  foot ;  there  was  something  red  at  her 
elbow  which  ought  not  to  have  been  there ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  I  was  well  enough  pleased.'   !Xow, 


52  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Austin,  after  this  no  more  of  such  lukewarm 
wooing." 

The  two  laughed  quietly  together,  and  Lord 
Tresham  went  on  with  his  talk.  He  told  the 
Earl  how  his  sister  Jiad  never  had  a  mother's 
care.  He  himself,  he  said,  stood  for  her  father ; 
and  then  he  praised  all  her  gentle  and  sweet 
traits  as  a  brother  should  whose  sister  was  as 
fair  as  the  Lady  Mildred. 

The  Earl  thanked  him  warmly  for  his  counsel ; 
but  his  Lordship  continued : 

"  And  yet  I  have  never  attempted  to  control 
Mildred.  Her  wish  to  please  me  quite  outstrips 
my  desire  to  be  pleased.  But  my  heart  will 
prefer  your  suit  to  her  as  if  it  were  its  own. 
Can  I  say  more  than  that,  my  Lord?" 

"  Indeed,  no  more ;  thanks,  a  thousand  thanks," 
replied  the  Earl,  and  he  craved  pardon  if  some- 
times his  mind  seemed  to  wander  from  their 
discourse,  because,  as  he  said,  he  was  conscious 
that  he  was  in  her  very  home,  under  the  selfsame 
roof  Then  he  rose  to  take  his  leave,  and  Lord 
Tresham  bade  him  adieu,  assuring  him  that  as 
soon  as  the  lady  had  made  known  her  wishes  a 
messenger  would  be  despatched  to  him  with  the 
news. 

The  Earl  made  a  courtly  bow  to  Lady  Gwen- 
dolen and  to  Austin,  then  turned  and  passed  on 
to  the  door  with  Lord  Tresham. 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  53 

When  his  Lordship  came  back  after  parting 
with  his  guest  he  was  radiant  with  enthusiasm. 

"  Come,"  he  cried  to  Austin  and  Lady  Gwen- 
dolen, "  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  how  does 
he  seem  ?" 

"  He's  young,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Well,  and  what  is  she  ? — only  an  infant,  ex- 
cept in  heart  and  brain.  Why,  she's  only  foui'- 
teen.  And  you  ?"  Then  turning  with  a  laugh  to 
his  brother  and  pointing  to  Gwendolen,  "  How 
old  is  she,  Austin  ?" 

"  Now,  there's  tact  for  you,"  mockingly  replied 
the  lady.  "  I  meant  that  being  young  was  a  good 
excuse  for  lack  of  wit." 

"  He  lack  wit !"  said  his  Lordship.  "  Wherein 
now  did  he  lack  wit  ?" 

Lady  Gwendolen  spoke  frankly  and  from  a 
mind  not  easily  deceived.  She  conceived  her 
intuitions  to  be  as  wise  as  her  cousin's  judgment- 
She  imitated  the  Earl  standing  as  stiff  as  the 
steward's  rod  and  making  tiresome  harangues ; 
instead,  as  she  said,  with  a  mock-angry  toss  of 
the  head,  of  slipping  over  to  her  side  and  plead- 
inof  his  cause  in  her  ear. 

"  You  are  right,  cousin,"  said  Tresham.  "  You 
will  help  us  all.  You  are— just  what  Austin  can 
best  tell.  Come  up,  all  three,  for  she  is  in  the 
library,  no  doubt, — the  day's  fast  wearing." 

Lady  Gwendolen  did  not  move.   As  his  Lord- 

5* 


54  Tales  from  Ten  Foefs. 

ship  and  Austin  stepped  towards  the  door,  she 
called,  "  Austin,  now  we  must " 

"  Must  what  ?"  asked  Tresham.  "  Must  speak 
truth,  you  malignant  tongue !  If  you  detect  a 
single  fault  in  him  I'll  challenge  you!" 

"  Witchcraft's  a  fault  in  him,  for  he  has  be- 
witched you,"  laughed  Gwendolen. 

Then  his  Lordship  fell  into  more  serious  talk. 
He  urged  that  Mildred  should  be  induced  to  see 
the  Earl  as  soon  as  possible, — say  to-morrow,  or 
next  day  at  farthest. 

The  Lady  Gwendolen  playfully  refused  to 
be  instructed,  but  affected  to  be  softened 
somewhat  at  his  Lordship's  offer  to  give 
her  his  favorite  hunter,  ITrganda,  as  a  re- 
ward for  securing  Mildred's  consent  to  see  the 
Earl  the  next  day. 

This  compact  duly  entered  into,  they  left  the 
hall  and  went  directly  to  the  library  in  search 
of  Lady  Mildred. 

III. 

Some  hours  after.  Lord  Tresham  and  his 
brother  having  parted  from  them  in  the  library, 
the  ladies  ascended  the  narrow  stone  flight  to 
Lady  Mildred's  bower.  It  was  a  shadowy,  wain- 
scoted room,  looking  out  on  the  park  through 
painted  windows,  which    when  the  sun  shone 


'  A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  55 

against  them  through  the  great  yew  boughs, 
cast  tinted  patterns  on  the  floor. 

But  it  was  nearly  midnight  now,  and  the 
moon  struggled  feebly  with  the  light  of  the 
candles  on  Lady  Mildred's  table.  She  and  her 
cousin  were  seated  beside  each  other  in  their 
glow,  Gwendolen  having  taken  a  low  stool  at 
Mildred's  feet,  from  which  she  looked  up  coax- 
ingly  into  her  face  with  her  arms  resting  on 
Mildred's  knee.  Mildred  was  languid  and  in- 
attentive, and  Gwendolen,  abandoning  her  rail- 
lery, fell  a  little  into  chiding  her. 

"  Don't  think,  cousin,"  she  said,  "  that  I've 
worked  such  prodigies  in  sparing  you  from 
Lord  Mertoun's  pedigree  and  in  defending  Aus- 
tin's attack  on  the  beauty  of  his  eyes,  only  to 
come  up  here  and  be  coolly  dismissed." 

"  Gwendolen !"  said  Mildred,  "  what  have  I 
done — what  could  suggest  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  There,  there !"  soothingly,  "  I  know  you 
want  to  be  alone,  dear,  yet " 

"  And  did  my  brother  really  receive  him  well?" 
interrupted  Mildred. 

"  If  I  said  '  weir  I  only  half  expressed  it. 
But  which  brother,  Mildred  ?" 

"  Why,  Thorold,  of  course ;  who  else  ?"  And 
then,  as  if  heedless  of  her  question,  she  looked 
furtively  about  her.  "  But,  dear  Gwendolen,  see, 
it  is  getting  late.     When  the  moon  reaches  that 


56  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

purple  pane  I  know  it  is  midnight."  She  pointed 
with  more  animation  than  she  had  yet  shown 
to  a  pane  in  the  casement  opposite  to  her. 

"  Well,"  said  Gwendolen,  yawning,  "  that  Thor- 
old  should  find  no  flaw  in  any  one  who  came 
to  engraft  himself  on  his  peerless  stock, — that 
quite  astonishes  me !" 

"  But  who  finds  a  flaw  in  Mertoun  ?"  asked 
Mildred,  turning  suddenly  from  watching  the 
moon. 

"Not  your  brother,  and  therefore  not  the 
whole  world,"  mocked  Gwendolen. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  weary,  Gwendolen  !"  sighed  Mil- 
dred.   "  Bear  with  me,  dearest." 

"  How  foolish  I  am !"  exclaimed  Gwendolen, 
rising. 

"  Oh,  no,  so  kind ;  indeed,  very  kind,"  said 
Mildred,  reaching  her  arms  up  to  her  for 
a  caress.  "But  I  am  so  weary.  1  must 
rest." 

"  Good-night,  and  good  rest  to  you,  then," 
called  Gwendolen,  as  she  tripped  towards  the 
door.  But  her  gay  humor  got  the  better  of  her 
before  she  lifted  the  latch,  and  she  cried,  "  I 
told  you,  his  mantle  lay  most  gracefully  under 
his  rings  of  light  hair  ?" 

"  Brown  hair,"  said  Mildred,  without  turning 
her  head,  and  half  forgetful  that  she  spoke  at 
all. 


A  Blot, in  the  ^Scutcheon.  57 

"  Brown  ?  Why,  it  is  brown,"  said  Gwendolen, 
with  a  step  towards  her.  "  How  could  you  know 
that  ?" 

"  How  ?"  asked   Mildred,  awakening  to  the 

real  purport  of  her  answer.    "  Did  you  not 

Oh,  no,  it  was  Austin  declared  his  hair  was 
light,  not  brown.  My  head !"  And  she  raised 
her  hands  to  her  temples ;  then,  seeing  the  moon 
again,  "  And  look,  the  moon  has  reached  the 
purple  pane.     Good-night,  sweet  cousin." 

<■<■  Forgive  me,  dearest,"  cried  Gwendolen,  waft- 
ing her  a  kiss,  "  and  sleep  all  the  sounder  for 
me !"  But  before  she  had  quite  closed  the  door 
behind  her  she  flung  it  open  again  and  leaned 
into  the  room,  crying,  "  Perdition  !  Thorold  finds 
that  the  Earl's  greatest  of  all  grandmothers 
was  grander  daughter  to  the  fair  dame  whose 
garter  slipped  down  at  the  famous  dance !" 
Then  the  door  clicked  to  and  she  was  gone. 

Mildred  hurriedly  rose  and  went  on  tiptoe 
over  to  the  door  to  see  if  her  cousin  had  really 
left.  When  she  was  satisfied  of  this,  she  lifted 
the  small  lamp  which  was  suspended  before  the 
Yirgin's  image  in  the  window  and  placed  it  in 
front  of  the  purple  pane,  then  returned  to  her 
seat. 

As  she  sat  there,  musing,  with  her  eyes  on 
the  moon,  but  with  a  suggestion  of  expectancy 
in  her  alert  attitude,  there  was  a  noise  of  rus- 


58  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

tling  leaves  outside  too  loud  and  irregular  to 
have  been  caused  by  the  wind.  Then  a  low 
voice,  passionately  sweet,  and  with  a  man's  rich 
accents,  began  to  sing  : 

"  There's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she's  so  purer  than 

the  purest ; 
And  her  noble  heart's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith's 

the  surest : 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth 

of  lustre 
Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the 

wild-grape  cluster, 
Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her  neck's  rose-misted 

marble : 
Then  her  voice's  music, — call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the 

bird's  warble  I" 

As  he  reached  these  words  the  singer  stepped 
from  the  boughs,  where  he  had  clung  to  offer 
his  serenade,  on  to  the  casement  ledge,  and  then 
lightly  into  the  room.  His  figure  was  wrapped 
in  a  long  mantle,  and  he  approached  Lady  Mil- 
dred's seat  and  bent  his  head,  still  singing,  but  in 
a  softer  and  tenderer  voice,  down  to  her  up- 
turned lips.  "When  he  had  finished  his  song  he 
threw  off  his  cloak  and  slouched  hat,  and  stood 
revealed  to  her. 

"  My  very  heart  sings,  so  my  lips  sing,  too, 
dearest,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 

She  drew  it  away  and  asked  him  to  sit  by 


A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  59 

her  side.  He  took  the  stool  left  by  Lady 
Grwendolen,  and  claimed  her  hand  again,  as  his 
own,  he  said.  She  did  not  withdraw  it  now,  but 
looked  down  lovingly  into  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,  shifting  his  attitude, 
"  the  meeting  we  dreaded  so  much  is  ended  at 
last." 

"  And  what  begins  now?"  asked  Mildred,  pen- 
sively. 

"  Happiness !"  said  he,  turning  again  to  look^ 
fondly  in  her  face.  "  Happiness  such  as  few  on 
this  earth  can  know  !"  he  repeated. 

"Ah,  Henry,"  she  said,  "  so  it  might  be  if  we 
deserved  it.  But  my  soul  has  heard  a  death- 
knell.     It  can  never  be." 

"Listen,  Mildred,"  he  broke  out  passionately. 
"  Have  I  met  your  brother  face  to  face  ?  have 
I  gained  him  at  last  ?  does  a  new  light  begin  to 
break  on  the  long  unrest  of  our  night,  and  still 
do  you  see  no  glory  in  the  east?  When  I  am 
by  you,  dear,  to  be  always  by  you,  after  I  have 
won  and  may  openly  worship  you,  can  you  still 
say.  This  can  never  be  ?" 

Mildred  let  her  hand  fall  gently  on  his  brow. 
She  looked  long  and  fondly  into  his  eyes,  then  she 
shook  her  head,  and  glanced  up  musingly  at  the 
moonlight  as  itstreamed through thepurple pane. 
"  Sin  has  surprised  us,  Henry,  and  so  will 
punishment,"  she  said. 


60  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  No,  no,  me  alone,  who  alone  have  sinned," 
he  said  in  a  deep  whisper. 

"  And  has  our  life  been  storm  throughout  to 
you,  Henry,"  she  asked,  "  that  you  liken  it  to  a 
night  of  strange  unrest  ?" 

"  Your  life,  yours,  Mildred,  I  meant.  What  am 
I  that  I  should  waste  a  thought  on  myself  when 
you  are  by  me  ?  No,  no,  it  has  been  a  perpetual 
dawn  with  me.  It  was  you  I  pulled  the  night 
down  on !" 

"  Come  what  come  will,"  she  said,  softly,  "  we 
have  been  happy,  Henry."  And  she  reached  her 
hand  into  his. 

He  took  it  and  sat  with  fixed  eyes,  as  if  liv- 
ing over  again  in  thought  the  life  they  had  led 
together.  Then  suddenly  turning  to  her,  he 
said,  abruptly,  "  How  good  your  brother  is  I 
I  thought  he  was  a  cold  and  haughty  man." 

"  They  told  me  everything,"  she  said,  as  if 
anticipating  his  thought.     "  I  know  all." 

"Yes,  it  will  soon  be  over  now."  And  he 
pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

But,  as  if  his  words  were  a  spark  among  her 
ashen  thoughts,  she  glowed  for  a  moment  with 
a  new  warmth. 

"  Over  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  What  over  ?  What 
must  I  live  through  before  I  can  say  it  is  over  ? 
Is  our  meeting  before  them  over?  Have  I 
received  the  partner  of  my  guilty  love  in  their 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  61 

( 
presence  with  a  brow  that  tries  to  appear  a 

maidenly  one,  with  hps  that  try  to  make  believe 
that,  when  they  reply  to  you,  it  is  the  nearest 
they  have  ever  apj^roached  a  stranger's?  Some 
prodigy  sent  by  (rod  will  put  a  stop  to  this  de- 
liberate piece  of  wickedness.  I  shall  murmur 
no  smooth  speeches,  but  pour  forth  our  whole 
woful  story  in  a  sudden  frenzy, — the  love,  the 
shame,  and  the  despair !  Oh,  Henry,  you  do  not 
wish  me  to  draw  this  vengeance  down  on  us  ? 
How  can  I  affect  a  grace  that  is  gone  from  me, 
gone  once,  and  forever?" 

He  soothed  her  as  best  he  could  with  speech 
and  caress,  and  offered  to  break  the  morning's 
contract  with  her  brother  and  part  from  her, 
leaving  their  love  to  the  care  of  healing  time. 

His  manly  and  persuasive  tone  brought  her 
to  herself  again,  and  once  more  she  said,  softly 
but  firmly,  that  she  would  meet  them, — go 
through  the  ordeal  and  do  all  as  it  was  planned. 

"  But  when  ?"  he  urged, — "  to-morrow  ?  Yes, 
say  to-morrow,  dearest,  and  let  us  be  done  with 
it!" 

She  took  fright  again  at  his  hurry,  and  asked 
him  to  delay  till  the  day  after. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  prepare  my  words 
and  looks  and  gestures  sooner  than  that,"  she 
pleaded.     "  But    how  you   must    despise    me, 

Henry !" 

6 


62  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

He  took  lier  gently  around  the  waist  and 
raised  her  from  her  seat,  then  paced  the  room 
back  and  forth  with  her  several  times,  as  if  to 
render  more  deliberate  what  he  meant  to  utter. 

"Mildred,"  he  said,  at  last,  "break  my  heart 
if  you  will ;  but  answer  me,  where  do  you  see 
contempt, — you  did  say  contempt,  didn't  you? 
— where  do  you  see  contempt  for  you  in  me  ? 
I  would  pluck  it  otf  and  cast  it  out  of  me  !  But 
you'll  not  repeat  that,  Mildred,  will  you  ?" 

"  Dear  Henry,"  she  murmured. 

Then,  as  if  to  justify  what  he  had  so  fervently 
said,  he  repeated  the  story  of  their  love :  how  he 
was  scarce  a  boy  when  they  met,  and  she  almost 
an  infant  with  her  hair  falling  loose  on  either  side 
her  face ;  how  his  cheeks  had  reddened  to  find 
her  such  a  sweet  fulfilment  of  all  his  boyish 
dreams ;  how  he  had  revealed  his  passion  to  her 
and  sworn  her  to  secrecy ;  how  at  last  he  grew 
mad  with  love,  and  felt  that  he  must  see  his 
beauty  in  her  own  bower  or  perish  in  the  un- 
dertaking. When  he  had  finished  this  passion- 
ate retrospect  he  poured  out  all  the  old  adora- 
tion, which  had  never  waned  but  had  grown  as 
they  grew  in  years.  She  listened  with  eyes 
looking  far  away  and  half-parted  lips.  She  was 
living  over  again  the  raptures  of  their  early 
days  together.  Then,  still  with  wide,  thoughtful 
eyes,  she  spoke : 


A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  63 

"  I  scarcely  grieve  for  the  past.  We'll  love 
on,  Henry, — you  will  love  me  still  ?" 

"  Who  could  ever  love  less  what  he  has  in- 
jured?" he  broke  out  vehemently.  He  touched 
her  lips  as  if  to  seal  the  vow  to  shield  her  through 
all  that  might  come. 

"  There,"  she  said,  gently  forcing  him  away 
from  her.  "  Let  that  be  your  last  word.  Go 
now.     I  shall  sleep  to-night." 

He  asked  eagerly,  as  if  startled  by  her  words, 
whether  they  were  to  meet  no  more. 

"  One  night  more,  Henry,"  she  said. 

"And  then, — think,  then  !"  he  cried. 

She  made  a  sad  answer  to  his  enthusiasm. 
There  was  no  sweet  courtship  for  her,  no  dawn- 
ing consciousness  of  love,  no  innocent  hopes 
and  fears, — the  morning  was  over. 

"  But  you  are  cautious,  dear  ?"  she  said,  as  he 
prepared  to  leave.  "  You  are  sure  no  one  sees 
you  scale  the  walls?" 

"  Oh,  trust  me !"  he  answered,  in  careless  con- 
fidence. "  Our  last  meeting's  fixed,  then  ?  To- 
morrow night?" 

He  snatched  a  single  passionate  kiss  and  was 
gone  before  she  could  waft  him  a  farewell.  He 
climbed  across  into  the  yew-tree  boughs  and  de- 
scended to  the  ground.  She  could  see  his  form 
glance  through  the  moonlight  as  he  ran  up  the 
avenue  of  old,  knotted  trunks. 


64  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

He  turned  once  and  waved  an  adieu  to  the 
window  where  he  knew  she  was  standing,  and 
she  responded  to  it,  though  she  was  conscious 
he  could  not  see  her. 

"  I  must  believe  him,  believe  every  word,"  she 
murmured  to  herself,  as  she  passed  back  into 
the  room.  "  I  was  so  young — I  loved  him  so — 
I  had  no  mother — God  forgot  me." 

Then  she  put  out  the  candles,  and  in  the  flood 
of  pallid  moonlight  that  slanted  across  the  room 
paced  silently  to  and  fro  with  many  an  anxious 
thought  to  bow  her  fair  head. 

lY. 

"VYhen  Lord  Tresham  entered  the  library  the 
next  morning  after  the  Earl's  visit  he  brought 
Gerard,  the  warrener,  with  him.  He  bade  him 
come  quickly  in,  and  when  the  old  man  had  done 
so,  with  an  awkward  gait  unused  to  such  luxu- 
rious places,  his  Lordship  hastened  to  lock  the 
door.  Then  my  Lord  drew  himself  up  and 
looked  keenly  at  his  aged  retainer,  faithful 
servant  of  the  house  through  two  generations. 

"  Now  repeat  firmly  and  circumstantially  what 
you  told  me,"  said  he,  his  face  wearing  a  look 
half  doubtful  of  Gerard's  tale,  yet  not  a  httle 
alarmed. 

"  It  is  God's  truth,"  began  Gerard ;  "  night 
after  night " 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  65 

"Since  when?"  interrupted  his  Lordship. 

"  At  least  a  month — every  midnight  some 
m.an  has  access  to  Lady  Mildred's  chamber." 

"  Tush,  '  access' !  "  broke  in  Lord  Tresham. 
"  No  wide  words  like  '  access'  to  me !" 

"  He  runs  along  the  woodside,"  continued 
Gerard,  with  a  meek  bow  of  obedience,  "  crosses 
to  the  south,  takes  the  tree  on  the  left  at  the 
end  of  the  avenue " 

"The  last  great  yew-tree?"  asked  Lord 
Tresham. 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  ;  you  can  stand  on  the  main 
boughs  as  if  you  were  on  a  platform.  Then 
he " 

"  Quick!"  exclaimed  his  Lordship,  both  hands 
knit  together  in  an  agony  of  doubt. 

"  Climbs  up,"  went  on  the  old  warrener,  stol- 
idly conscious  of  the  pain  he  was  giving,  "  and 
where  the  limbs  lessen  in  size  at  the  top — I  can- 
not see  distinctly,  but  I  think  he  throws  a  line 
that  reaches  over  to  the  lady's  casement." 

"  But  he  never  enters  !"  said  Tresham,  appeal- 
ingly.  "  No,  Gerard,  it  is  some  wretched  fool  pry- 
ing into  her  privacy.  Sometimes  to  a  youth  it 
seems  a  precious  thing  to  have  even  approached 
the  bower  of  the  lady -he  has  set  his  thoughts 
upon.     Of  course  he  could  not  enter,  Gerard  ?" 

The  old  man  began  again  as  if  no  interrup- 
tion had  occurred : 

II.— e  6* 


66  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  There  is  a  lump  that's  set  in  the  midst  of 
the  casement,  under  a  red  square  in  the  painted 
glass  of  Lady  Mildred's " 

"  Leave  the  name  out !"  said  his  Lordship, 
impatiently.    "  Well,  the  lamp  ?" 

"  It  is  moved  up  higher  at  midnight,"  replied 
Gerard,  "  to  a  small  dark-blue  pane.  He  waits 
for  that  among  the  boughs.  At  sight  of  it — • 
plain  as  1  see  you  now,  my  Lord — he  opens  the 
lady's  casement  and  enters." 

"  And  stays  ?"  asked  Lord  Tresham,  with  a 
step  forward  and  looking  keenly  into  Gerard's 
face. 

"  An  hour,  perhaps  two  hours." 

"  And  you  saw  this  once  ?  twice  ?  Be  quick, 
answer !" 

"  Twenty  times,"  said  Gerard,  with  eyes  always 
on  the  ground. 

"  And  what  brings  you  under  the  yew-trees  at 
that  hour  ?"  asked  his  Lordship,  trying  to  throw 
doubt  on  the  old  man's  story  as  a  means  of 
allaying  his  own  pain.  But  Gerard  had  an 
honest  answer.  It  was  a  hard  duty  he  was 
performing,  and  he  was  unconscious  of  every 
other  thought. 

"  I  left  my  range  one  night  to  track  a  strange 
stag  that  broke  through  our  pale,  and  then  I 
first  saw  the  man." 

"  But  you  had  your  cross-bow,  why  not  have 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  67 

sent  a  shaft  through  hiin  ?"  asked  Lord  Tresham, 
fiercely. 

"It  was  bright  moonlight, — bright  as  day, 
and  he  came  from  Lady  Mildred's  chamber." 

His  Lordship  seemed  not  to  heed  the  words. 
He  stood  pondering  a  long  time.  His  head  was 
turned  towards  the  window,  but  his  thoughts 
were  not  upon  what  he  saw.  A  score  of  ex- 
planations of  the  strange  news  were  passing 
through  his  mind.  At  last,  abruptly,  he  turned 
to  Gerard,  who  had  never  moved,  but  stood  hat 
in  hand  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor. 

"  You  have  no  cause,  Gerard, — who  could  have 
cause, — to  do  my  sister  a  wrong?" 

"  Oh,  my  Lord,"  broke  out  the  old  warrener, 
as  if  he  could  no  longer  keep  his  feelings  in 
check,  "  let  me  speak  my  mind  this  once.  Since 
I  have  known  it  I  have  lived  as  if  I  were 
plucked  hither  and  thither  in  a  fiery  net.  There 
was  fire  if  I  turned  to  her,  fire  if  I  turned  to 
you,  and  fire  if  I  flung  myself  down  and  tried  to 
die.  Why,  she  could  not  have  been  seven  years 
old  when  I  was  first  trusted  to  conduct  her  safe 
through  the  deer-park  to  stroke  the  snow-white 
fawn,  which  within  a  month  I  taught  to  eat 
bread  from  her  tiny  hand.     She  alwa3^8  greeted 

me  with  a  smile — she Oh,  if  I  could  undo 

what's  done ! — I  mean  I  could  not  speak  and 
bring  her  a  hurt  for  conscience'  sake ;  but  yet 


68  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

when  I  was  forced  to  hold  my  peace,  every 
morsel  I  ate  beneath  your  roof,  my  own  birth- 
place, choked  me.  This  morning  it  seemed  that 
either  I  must  confess  to  you  or  die.  Now  it  is 
done,  I  seem  the  vilest  worm  that  crawls  !"  Ho 
stopped  with  a  sob  in  his  throat  and  took  his 
handkerchief  from  his  hat,  mopping  his  brow 
and  eyes  with  it. 

"  No,  no,  Gerard,"  said  Lord  Tresham,  sooth- 
ingly, and  putting  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  arm. 

But  Gerard  retreated  from  his  touch.  "  Let 
me  go !"  he  said. 

Lord  Tresham  did  not  heed  him.  His  mind 
was  fixed  on  what  he  had  heard. 

"  A  man,  you  say,  Gerard  ?  What  man  ? 
Younor  ?  ]^ot  a  low  hind  ?  How  was  he  dressed?" 
He  asked  the  questions  rapidly  without  waiting 
for  replies. 

"A  slouched  hat  and  a  large  dark  foreign 
cloak,"  said  Gerard,  answering  only  the  last. 
"  His  face  is  hid,  but  I  judge  him  to  be  young ; 
no  hind,  be  sure,  my  Lord." 

"Why?"  asked  his  Lordship, 

"Because  he  is  always  armed.  His  sword 
shows  beneath  his  cloak." 

"  Gerard,"  said  Lord  Tresham,  as  he  dismissed 
him,  "  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  you 
must  not  breathe  a  word  of  this." 

"  Thanks,  thanks,  my  Lord !"  exclaimed  the 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  69 

old  man,  bowed  down  with  grief  and  scarcely 
knowing  what  he  uttered.  Lord  Tresham  un- 
locked the  door,  and,  with  a  bow,  Gerard  passed 
out. 

When  he  was  gone,  my  Lord  paced  up  and 
down  the  room  with  long  nervous  strides.  He 
was  not  yet  prepared  to  believe  all  he  had  heard, 
plausible  as  it  sounded.  Gerard  was  old  and 
likely  to  be  mistaken.  Moreover,  it  was  not  in 
his  sister's  nature  to  do  what  he  had  charged. 
He  laughed  the  suspicion  away.  That  she,  the 
pure,  beautiful  girl,  could  err  so,  much  less 
practise  treachery  and  craft  such  as  she  must 
have  used  to  deceive  him, — the  thought  was 
preposterous  !  But  yet  his  heart  ached  with  a 
dread  that  he  could  not  conquer,  and  his  head 
sank  between  his  arms  on  the  table.  He  had 
not  sat  there  more  than  a  moment  or  so  when 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Lady  Gwen- 
dolen called, — 

"  Lord  Tresham !" 

Then  after  a  pause  another  knock,  and  again : 

"  Is  Lord  Tresham  there  ?" 

He  lifted  his  head  at  this  and  looked  be- 
wildered towards  the  door,  then  hastily  rose  and 
pulled  down  the  first  book  he  could  reach. 
When  he  had  opened  it  on  his  knees  and  pre- 
tended to  be  reading  he  called,  "  Come  in,"  and 
Lady  Gwendolen  entered. 


70  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Ah,  Gwendolen,"  he  said, — "  good-morn'mg." 

"Nothing  more?"  she  asked,  archly. 

"  What  more  should  I  say  ?"  he  said,  with  half 
a  smile. 

"  Pleasant  question,"  she  retorted,  with  mock 
vexation.  "  More  ?  This  more,  then  :  Did  I  be- 
siege poor  Mildred  last  night  with  '  the  Earl'  till 

I  am  fain  to  hope  that But,  Thorold !"  she 

hiu-ried  close  to  him,  "  what  is  all  this  ?  You 
are  not  well !" 

"  Who  ? — I  ?"  he  said,  in  apparent  surprise. 
"  JSTo,  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  Has  what  I  hoped  for  come  to  pass,  then  ?" 
she  asked,  gayly.  "  Do  you  find  some  blot  in  the 
Earl's  'scutcheon  in  your  huge  book  there  ?" 

"  When  did  you  leave  Mildred's  chamber, 
Gwendolen?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  late  enough,  I  told  you.  The  main  thing 
to  tell  is,  how  I  left  her  chamber.  Content 
yourself;  she'll  treat  this  paragon  of  Earls  to 
no  such  ungracious " 

"  Send  her  here,"  interrupted  his  Lordship. 

«  Thorold  ?"  she  said,  doubtfully. 

"I  mean — acquaint  her,  Gwendolen.  But 
mildly !" 

"  Mildly  ?"  asked  Gwendolen,  with  a  look  of 
surprise  on  her  cheerful  face, 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Tresham.  "  You  guessed 
right,  Gwendolen,     I  am  not  well.     There's  no 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  71 

hidincr  it.  But  tell  her  I  would  like  to  see  her 
at  her  leisure, — that  is,  at  once, — here  in  the 
library.  Tell  her  the  passage  we  hunted  for  in 
that  old   Italian   book   is  found,  and   if  I   let 

it   slip   again You   see,  Gwendolen,   that 

she  must  come — and  instantly!"  His  tone 
grew  more  and  more  peremptory  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, but  Lady  Gwendolen  feigned  not  to 
notice  it. 

"  I'll  die  piecemeal,  record  that,  if  some  blot 
in  the  'scutcheon  has  not  turned  up !"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Go !"  he  said,  impatiently ;  then,  changing 
his  mind  as  she  retreated,  "  Or,  Gwendolen,  just 
be  at  call — you  and  Austin,  if  you  choose — in 
the  adjoining  gallery.  There  now,  go  !"  And 
the  lady  tripped  out  with  a  backward  glance 
which  showed  her  astonishment  at  my  Lord's 
unusual  humor. 

Tresham  felt  that  he  had  made  but  poor  success 
at  disguising  his  agitation,  and  he  was  little  hope- 
ful that  he  could  question  his  sister  with  any  bet- 
ter avail.  He  was  of  an  outspoken  and  candid 
nature,  and  concealment  was  a  new  trait  for  him 
to  assume.  He  could  not  master  his  thoughts 
now.  They  would  stray  away  in  spite  of  him  to 
the  one  theme  in  his  mind, — How  could  Mildred 
be  guilty  ?  Prove  Gerard's  charges,  and  you 
might   prove   anything   afterwards, — that   she 


72  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

was  a  poisoner  or  a  traitress.  IN'o,  the  thing 
was  impossible ! 

As  he  sat  there  with  bowed  head  brooding  in 
this  fashion,  Mildred  came  into  the  room. 

"  What  book  is  it  I  wanted,  Thorold  ?"  she 
asked.  "Gwendolen  thought  you  were  pale, — 
you  are  not  pale."  She  looked  anxiously  into 
his  face.  "  That  book  ?"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
one  in  his  hand.    "Why,  that's  Latin,  surely!" 

"  Mildred,"  he  said,  softly  and  tenderly,  "  here's 

a  line "  but  as  she  bent  over  him  he  moved 

nervously  away,  saying,  "Don't  lean  on  me." 
Then  he  went  on:  "Here's  a  line  I'll  put  into 
English  for  you :  '  Love  conquers  all  things.' 
What  love  conquers  them,  Mildred  ?  what  love 
would  you  say  was  the  best  ?" 

"  True  love,  Thorold,"  she  answered,  looking 
half  alarmed  at  him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  ;  "  I  mean,  whose  love  is  the 
best  of  all  those  who  love  or  profess  to  love  ?" 

She  looked  down  as  if  divining  his  intention, 
then  answered  with  a  little  hesitation, — 

"The  list's  so  long,  Thorold;  there's  father's, 
mother's,  husband's " 

"Mildred,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  do  believe  a 
brother's  love  for  an  only  sister  exceeds  them 
all.  There's  no  alloy  in  his  love,  nothing  for 
which  she  must  feel  gratitude.  He  never  gave 
her  life,  nor  what  keeps  life,  never  tended  her, 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  73 

nor  instructed,  nor  enriched  her.  His  love  can 
claim  no  right  over  her  saving  pure  love  alone. 
That's  what  I  call  freedom  from  earth liness.  I 
think  such  love, — apart  from  yours  and  mine, — 
I  think — I  am  sure — a  brother's  love  exceeds  all 
other  loves  in  the  world  in  pure  unselfishness." 

"  But  what  is  this  for,  Thorold  ?"  she  asked, 
half  jestingly  and  half  fearful  that  it  preluded 
the  discovery  of  her  wrong-doing. 

"  It  means  this,  Mildred,"  he  answered,  and  he 
rose  as  he  said  the  words ;  but  when  he  looked 
into  her  fair,  innocent  face,  all  his  courage  and  in- 
dignation left  him.  "  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot 
come  to  it  so  soon!  That's  one  of  the  many 
points  I  left  out  in  my  haste.  Every  day  and 
horn*  throws  its  slight  film  between  you  and  the 
being  who  is  tied  to  you  by  birth,  until  those 
slender  threads  grow  to  a  web  that  shrouds  her 
whole  life  from  yours.  You  live  so  close  together 
yet  so  far  apart.  Must  I  rend  this  web,  Mildred, 
and  break  down  the  sweet  mystery  that  makes 
a  sister  sacred  ?     Shall  I  speak  or  not?" 

"  Speak,  Thorold,"  she  said,  faintly,  and  with 
downcast  eyes. 

"  I  will,  then.  Is  there  a  story  men  could  tell 
of  you,  Mildred,  which  you  would  conceal  from 
me  ?  I  cannot  think  there  is  falsehood  on  those 
lips.  Say  there  is  no  such  story,  sister,  and  I'll 
believe  you." 

D  7 


74  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Mildred  did  not  look  at  him,  nor  did  she  move 
or  say  a  word.  There  was  a  long  pause  while 
he  stood  gazing  at  her  downcast  eyes  and  reach- 
ing inwardly  the  awful  conviction  of  her  guilt. 

"Not  speak?"  he  cried  at  last.  "Explain, 
then !  Clear  it  up !  Move  away  some  of  this 
miserable  weight  from  my  heart.  Ah,  if  I 
could  bring  myself  to  plainly  make  theii'  charge 
against  you !     Must  I,  Mildred  ?" 

There  was  another  pause,  but  she  did  not 
move  nor  raise  her  head.  He  broke  out  again  : 
"  Is  there  a  gallant  who  has  admittance  to  your 
chamber  night  after  night?"  He  paused  once 
more,  but  she  was  silent.  "  Come,  then,"  he 
exclaimed,  pleadingly ;  "  come,  Mildred,  if  it 
must  be  so.  Give  me  his  name.  Till  now  I  had 
only  thought  of  you ;  but  now, — his  name !" 

She  could  endure  it  no  longer.  She  raised 
her  head,  but  looked  away  from  him.  She  did 
not  weep.  She  spoke  as  if  her  grief  was  too 
great  for  tears. 

"  Thorold,  do  what  you  will  with  me.  I  will 
submit,  and  bless  you  for  it.  But  do  not,  oh ! 
do  not  plunge  me  into  owj  other  wrong.  I  can- 
not tell  his  name." 

"Then  judge  for  j'^ourself,"  he  said,  with  the 
first  real  anger  he  had  shown.  "  How  shall  I 
act?" 

"  Oh,  Thorold,  you  must  not  tempt  me  so !" 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  75 

The  tears  had  come  now  and  she  could  look  at 
him  again.  "  Could  I  die  here  by  your  sword  it 
would  seem  like  punishment,  and  I  should  glide 
like  an  arch -cheat  into  bliss.  But  what  would 
become  of  you  ?" 

"And  what  will  become  of  me,  Mildred?" 
He  threw  his  hands  wide  apart  and  paused  for 
her  answer,  "  I'll  hide  your  shame  and  mine 
from  the  world.  You  may  wed  your  paramour 
above  our  mother's  tomb ;  she  cannot  move  from 
beneath  your  feet.  We  two  will  somehow  wear 
this  out  one  day.  But  to-morrow  the  Earl 
comes.  Last  night  I  despatched  a  missive  at 
your  command  bidding  him  present  himself 
You  encouraged  him  to  come.  Now  this  morn- 
ing you  must  dictate  another  letter  to  counter- 
mand last  night's." 

"  But,  Thorold,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, "what  if  I  will  receive  him  as  I  said?" 

"  The  Earl !"  cried  Tresham,  horrified. 

"  Yes,  I  will  receive  him ;  why  not  ?"  said  Mil- 
dred, glad  at  so  easy  an  issue  from  the  ditficulty. 

Lord  Tresham  paced  to  and  fro  several  times, 
looking  steadily  and  fearfully  at  her  as  if  she 
were  some  unnatural  thing.  Then  he  called 
loudly, — 

"  Ho,  there  !  Gwendolen !" 

Lady  Gwendolen  and  Austin  entered  in  haste 
from  the  outer  gallery. 


76  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Look  !"  said  Trosham,  pointing  at  Mildred. 
"Look  there,  the  woman  there!" 

"  How  ?  Mildred  ?"  said  the  others  in  a  breath. 

"  Mildred  once,"  he  thundered,  "  but  now  the 
receiver,  night  after  night  beneath  this  roof  that 
covers  us  all,  of  an  accomplice  in  her  guilt.  Know 
her  for  what  she  is !     Know  her  for  a  wanton  !" 

Gwendolen  had  taken  Mildred  in  her  arms 
while  he  spoke,  and  clung  about  her,  trjnng  to 
move  her  with  sympathy  and  sisterly  words. 

"  Oh,  Mildred,  Mildred,  look  at  me  at  least !" 
she  pleaded;  then  turning  to  Tresham,  "Oh, 
pity,  pity!  Thorold,  she  stands  here  as  if  she 
were  turned  to  stone !" 

But  Tresham  took  no  notice  of  the  appeal. 
He  walked  excitedly  up  and  down  repeating 
fragments  of  Mildred's  story.  Gwendolen  mo- 
tioned him  to  be  quiet  for  Mildred's  sake,  who 
looked  as  if  she  were  frozen  with  shame  and 
grief 

Mildred  saw  the  gesture,  and  spoke  with  her 
eyes  still  on  the  ground  :  "  All  he  says  is  true. 
You  had  best  go  away  from  me  now." 

She  tenderly  unwound  her  cousin's  arms  from 
about  her. 

But  Tresham  was  too  deeply  stirred  to  cease 
because  his  words  gave  pain.  He  meant  that 
they  should  bite  deeply  into  the  conscience  of 
their  victim,  and  he  went  over  and  over  again 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  77 

the  unhappy  details.  It  was  not,  he  said,  be- 
cause Mildred  had  fallen  from  grace  that  he  re- 
proached her  80  sternly.  She  was  unprotected 
and  without  a  mother's  care ;  and  he  too  was 
half  to  blame  for  her  fault.  He  had  lacked, 
perhaps,  in  brotherly  attention.  What  roused 
all  his  feelings  of  repugnance  and  made  him 
loathe  her  now  was,  that  she  could  come  from 
the  guilty  intercourse  with  her  gallant  and 
wantonly  propose  that  he,  her  brother,  should 
help  her  to  allure  the  young  and  trustful  Earl 
into  an  alliance  with  her. 

Mildred  gave  no  sign  that  she  listened  to  his 
words  until  he  reached  the  climax  of  his  indig- 
nation. 

"Shame  hunt  her  from  the  earth!"  he  cried, 
rushing  towards  the  door. 

She  did  not  look  around  at  him,  but  her  face 
grew  suddenly  pallid,  and  she  fell  fainting  into 
Gwendolen's  arms. 

Austin  followed  Tresham  to  the  door,  but  he 
was  recalled  by  Gwendolen.  He  also  would 
have  deserted  his  sister ;  but  the  truer  heart  of 
his  betrothed  won  him  back.  He  came  to  her 
side  and  bent  tenderly  over  the  unconscious 
Mildred. 

"  Here's  Austin,  Mildred,"  whispered  Gwendo- 
len. "  He  says  he  does  not  half  believe  what  he 
has  heard.     He  says,  look  up  and  take  his  hand." 

7* 


78  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Austin  repeated  what  she  said :  "  Yes,  look 
uj)  and  take  my  hand,  dear."  And,  softened  by 
his  soothing  voice,  the  poor  girl  lifted  up  her 
languid  hand  and  laid  it  on  his. 

Then  as  if  she  were  dreaming  the  words,  she 
said  over  again,  slowly  and  brokenly,  "  I  was  so 
young.  Beside,  I  loved  him,  Thorold — and  I  had 
no  mother — God  forgot  me." 

She  raised  herself  upon  her  feet  at  last  and 
went  towards  the  door  with  groping  hands 
stretched  out  before  her.  They  tried  to  detain 
her,  but  she  entreated  them  to  let  her  go. 

Gwendolen  followed  her,  and  running  in  front 
before  she  reached  the  door,  bade  her  rely  on 
her  two  friends,  who  would  do  her  bidding  in 
all  things.  "  Here's  Austin  waiting  patiently  to 
help  you,"  she  said.  "  There's  one  spirit  to  com- 
mand and  one  to  love.  Why,  Mildred,  the 
world  has  been  won  many  a  time  by  just  such  a 
beginning  as  this." 

Mildred  understood  now,  and  was  touched  by 
their  devotion.  She  spoke  as  if  a  deep  relief 
had  come  to  her  heart. 

"  I  believe  if  I  could  once  throw  my  arms 
about  your  neck  and  sink  my  head  on  your 
breast,  Gwendolen,  that  I  could  weep  again." 

Gwendolen  whispered  to  Austin  to  let  go  Mil- 
dred's hand  and  wait  for  them  in  the  hall ;  and 
he  quietly  withdrew. 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  79 

Mildred  leaned  her  head  on  Gwendolen's 
shoulder,  but  she  could  not  weep, 

"  No  more  tears  from  this  brain,"  she  mur- 
mured ;  "  no  sleep,  no  tears !"  Then  with  a  sud- 
den impulse  born  of  her  old  self  she  said,  "  Oh, 
Gwendolen,  how  I  love  you !" 

Gwendolen  urged  her  to  confide  in  her,  to 
reveal  her  lover's  name  ;  it  was  so  needful  to 
know  his  name  were  anything  to  be  done  for 
her.     But  she  would  not  tell  it. 

"  At  least  he  is  your  lover  ?  And  you  love  him 
too  ?"  said  Gwendolen. 

"  Ah,  do  you  ask  me  that  ?  But  I  am  fallen 
80  low,"  she  answered,  piteously. 

"You  love  him  still,  then?"  said  Gwendo- 
len. 

"  My  only  prop  against  the  guilt  that  crushes 
me!" 

"  But  how  could  you  even  let  us  talk  of  Lord 
Mertoun  ?"  inquired  the  puzzled  Gwendolen. 

Mildred  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  seemed 
struggling  with  some  painful  problem.  At  last 
she  said,  wearily,  "  There  is  a  cloud  around  me, 
Gwendolen." 

"  But  you  said  you  would  receive  his  suit  in 
spite  of  this,"  urged  her  cousin. 

"  I  say  there  is  a  cloud "  began  Mildred ; 

but  Gwendolen  interrupted. 

"  No  cloud  to  me  1"  she  exclaimed,  a  sudden 


80  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

light   breaking  in  upon   her;  "Lord   Mertoun 
and  your  lover  are  the  same." 

"  What  mad  fancy !"  said  Mildred,  raising  her 
head  and  turning  full  on  Gwendolen  to  see  if 
she  really  meant  it. 

Gwendolen  called  to  Austin,  but  he  did  not 
come  in;  then  to  Mildred  she  said,  firmly, 
"  Spare  your  pains.  When  I  have  once  got  a 
truth  I  keep  it." 

"By  all  your  love,  sweet  cousin,"  pleaded 
Mildred,  "  forbear,  forbear !" 

Austin  did  not  appear,  and  Gwendolen  called 
again. 

"Oh,  not  to  have  guessed  it  at  first!"  she 
cried.  «  But  I  did  guess  it ;  that  is,  I  divined  it,— 
felt  how  it  was  by  instinct.  How  else  could  I 
absolve  you  from  all  that  heap  of  sins  ?  But, 
dear,  the  secret  is  wholly  mine.     If  the  Earl 

returns  to-nia:ht " 

"  He  is  lost !"  groaned  Mildred. 
"  There,  I  thought  so !"  said  Gwendolen,  and 
again  she  called  Austin. 
Presently  he  came  in. 

"  Where  have  you  been  hiding,  Austin  ?"  she 
said.  He  did  not  notice  her  agitation.  He 
thought  solely  of  his  brother. 

"  Thorold  has  gone  across  the  meadow-lands," 
said  he.  "  I  watched  him  till  I  lost  him  in  the 
skirts  of  the  beech- wood." 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  81 

"  Gone !  Everything  is  against  us !"  cried 
Gwendolen.  "  But  first  we  must  help  Mildred 
to  her  room.  You  go  on  the  other  side,  Austin." 
They  supported  her  up  the  stone  flights  to  the 
chamber  whore  the  painted  window  looked  out 
upon  the  yew-tree  avenue. 

Y. 

There  was  a  glimmer  of  light  shining  through 
a  pane  in  Lady  Mildred's  casement,  but  no  other 
token  of  life  was  visible  in  that  room  high  up 
among  the  yew-tree  boughs.  Down  on  the  path 
below  a  man  was  pacing  restlessly  back  and 
forth.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  he  muttered 
to  himself  as  if  he  were  vexed  or  distressed. 
Now  and  then,  as  he  paced  near,  he  looked  up 
at  the  slender  ray  of  light,  and  at  last,  as  it  fell 
faintly  on  his  face,  it  revealed  liord  Tresham. 

He  had  wandered  far  away  over  the  heath 
and  through  the  woods  after  he  had  left  the 
library.  He  longed  to  forget  himself  and  his 
despair  in  the  paths  which  had  once  bewildered 
him  as  a  boy.  Yet  he  was  inevitably  led  back 
to  the  one  place  he  wished  to  avoid.  The 
darkest  shade  in  the  trees  broke  up,  and  the 
old  trunks  seemed  to  open  wide  £o  let  him  go 
out ;  the  river,  too,  seemed  to  put  its  arm  about 
him  and  conduct  him  to  the  detested  spot. 
There  was  no  use  for  him  to  strive  against  his 

n.-/ 


82  Tales  from  Teyi  Poets. 

fate.  He  let  the  trees  and  the  river  do  as  they 
would  with  him.  But  when  he  had  reached  the 
avenue  of  yews  and  entered  its  dark  reaches, 
he  could  not  tell  why  he  had  come  there  nor 
what  he  must  do. 

A  bell  struck  midnight  while  he  was  still 
pacing  restlessly  about,  and  he  seemed  to  gather 
a  definite  purpose  from  its  sound.  As  his  hand 
reached  instinctively  for  the  sword-hilt,  there 
was  a  noise  behind  him  of  approaching  steps. 
He  hid  behind  a  huge  trunk  and  watched,  while 
a  tall  figure,  muffled  in  a  long  cloak,  stole  past. 

It  was  Mertoun  come  for  his  final  meeting 
with  Mildred.  He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  tree  with  his  face  upturned  to  the  case- 
ment, waiting  for  the  signal.  He  was  buoyant 
with  hope.  This  was  the  last  time  he  would 
ever  watch  for  the  rise  of  his  love-star  to  the 
purple  pane.  The  past  was  to  be  made  precious 
by  the  happiness  of  the  present.  He  longed  to 
see  Mildred  revive  and  cast  away  all  evidence  of 
their  long  concealment. 

As  he  was  musing  thus,  the  light  was  lifted 
slowly  to  the  purple  pane,  and  with  a  passionate 
exclamation  he  prepared  to  ascend  the  old  tree ; 
but  before  his  feet  had  quite  left  the  ground 
Tresham  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Let  me  go, — peasant,  by  your  grasp !"  he  said, 
in  a  menacing  whisper.    Then,  alarmed  by  the 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  83 

man's  persistence.  "  IN'ay,  here's  gold ;  it  was  a 
mad  freak  of  mine.  I  said  I'd  pluck  a  branch 
from  that  white-blossoming  shrub  near  the  case- 
ment up  there.  Here,  take  this  and  hold  your 
peace."  He  offered  a  purse,  but  the  grim  in- 
truder made  no  motion  to  take  it. 

"  Come  into  the  moonlight  yonder  with  me." 
The  stranger  spoke  sternly  and  firmly. 

"  But,  fool,  I'm  armed,"  said  Mertoun. 

"  Yes  or  no, — you'll  come  into  the  light  or  no  ?" 
Tresham's  hand  was  on  his  throat,  and  there  was 
no  escape.  As  they  advanced,  the  Earl  wondered 
where  he  had  heard  that  voice  before.  It  sounded 
80  like  one  he  remembered,  but  that  was  mild 
and  slow. 

"  You  are  armed,"  Tresham  said ;  "  that's  well. 
Your  name,  now, — who  are  you  ?" 

The  Earl  now  recognized  his  captor,  and  his 
heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  fear  for  Mildred.  He 
said  nothing,  and  Tresham  uttered  a  scornful 
exclamation. 

"  Your  name  ?"  he  asked  again,  sharply. 

Mertoun  implored  him  not  to  desire  to  know 
his  name ;  but  his  plea  was  in  vain.  He  threw  off 
his  disguises  and  stood  revealed  in  the  moonlight. 

«  Mertoun !" 

Lord  Tresham  fell  back  as  though  stunned. 
But  he  paused  only  a  moment.  "  Draw  now !" 
he  said,  fiercely. 


84  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Hear  me  first,"  urged  the  Earl. 

"  Not  one  word !  I  will  strangle  in  your  throat 
the  least  word  that  informs  me  how  you  can  live 
and  still  be  what  you  are.  I  know  now  it  was  you 
who  taught  her  to  sin  and  keep  that  innocent 
face.  Draw !"  He  repeated  his  challenge  sternly. 

"  I  do  not  ask  it  for  my  own  sake  ?  For  hers 
— for  yours !"  the  Earl  implored. 

"  How  should  I  know  your  cowardly  ways  !" 
said  Tresham,  with  a  cruel  laugh.  "Tell  mo 
what  will  force  you  to  fight.  Must  I  sting  you 
with  a  blow  ?"  And  he  taunted  him  with  base 
names  and  insulting  threats. 

The  Earl  drew  his  sword,  calling  on  Heaven 
to  judge  between  them. 

"  Have  your  will,  my  Lord,"  he  said  at  last, 
falling  into  the  attitude  of  defence. 

There  were  but  a  few  passes  between  them, 
and  Mertoun  fell. 

Tresham  bent  over  him. 

"  You  are  not  hurt  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  You  will  hear  me  now."  The  Earl  spoke 
as  if  in  pain  but  with  calm  assurance. 

Lord  Tresham  bade  him  rise,  and  would  have 
helped  him  ;  but  he  was  desperately  hurt. 

"  Ah,  Tresham,"  he  said,  "  what  gives  a  man 
a  more  sacred  right  to  speak  in  his  own  defence 
than  the  thought  that  presently  he  may  have 
leave  to  speak  before  his  God?" 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  85 

Tresham  grew  alarmed.  His  anger  had  cooled, 
and  the  impulsive  wrong  he  had  done  began  to 
touch  him  with  remorse. 

"Not  hurt?"  he  went  on,  oblivious  of  the 
Earl's  words.  "It  cannot  be!  You  made  no 
effort  to  resist  me."  He  put  his  hand  upon 
Mertoun's  side.     "  Hurt  here  ?"  he  asked, 

Mertoun  half  groaned  as  he  touched  him.  Then 
he  pleaded  with  Tresham  to  hear  him  and  believe 
him.  He  told  of  the  early  wrong  he  had  done 
his  house,  and  said  if  he  could  forgive  him  he 
would  hope  to  speak  of  Mildred.  Lord  Tresham 
not  only  forgave  him,  but  in  the  fulness  of  his 
regret  for  what  had  happened  craved  himself 
to  be  forgiven. 

"Ah,  Tresham,  that  a  sword-stroke  and  a 
drop  of  blood  or  two  should  have  brought  about 
all  this !"  The  Earl  spoke  brokenly  but  with  a 
deep  happiness.  "  Why,  it  was  my  fear  of  you, 
my  love  of  you,  that  ruined  me.  I  burned  to 
knit  myself  to  you ;  but  I  was  young,  and  your 
surpassing  reputation  kept  me  aloof  And  yet 
I  know  you  did  not  see  this.  Let  me  look  into 
your  face  now  ;  I  feel  it  is  changed."  He  tried 
to  hft  himself,  but  could  not  see.  "Where, 
where  are  you,  Treshani?"  he  asked;  but  the 
lamp  at  the  window  caught  his  eye  as  he  strove 
to  rise,  and  he  wailed  her  name.  "  What  will 
Mildred  do,  Tresham  ?     Her  life  is  bound  up  in 

8 


86        ^  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  life  that  is  bleeding  away.  I  must  live. 
There !  If  you  will  only  turn  me  I  shall  live 
and  save  her !  Oh,  had  you  but  heard !  Had 
you  but  heard  me!  What  right  had  you  to  set 
a  thoughtless  foot  on  our  lives  and  then  say  as 
we  perish,  '  If  I  had  thought  all  would  have 
gone  well '?  We've  sinned  and  we  die.  Never 
you  sin,  Lord  Tresham,  for  you'll  die,  and  God 
will  judge  you." 

Tresham  murmured  some  soothing  words,  but 
he  could  not  stem  the  tide  of  the  dying  man's 
utterance. 

"  Now  say  this  to  her,"  continued  the  Earl. 
"You — no  one  but  you — say,  I  saw  him  die, 
and  he  breathed  this :  '  I  love  her.' — You  don't 
know  what  those  three  small  words  mean, 
Tresham. — Say  loving  her  lowers  me  down  the 

bloody  slope  to  death  with   memories I 

speak  to  her,  not  you,  who  had  no  pity." 

Then  he  broke  forth  into  a  passionate  appeal 
against  those  who  might  misuse  her  after  he 
was  gone.  He  entreated  her  to  die  with  him, 
and  leave  a  world  which  had  cast  them  out. 

His  burning  words  were  cut  short  by  the 
sharp  sound  of  a  whistle  near  by. 

"  Ho,  Gerard !"  called  Lord  Tresham.  And  the 
old  warrener,  with  Austin  and  Gwendolen,  came 
hurriedly  through  the  trees,  carrying  lights  in 
their  hands. 


A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  87 

"  No  one  speak !"  commanded  Tresham.  "  You 
see  what  is  done !    I  cannot  bear  another  voice." 

"There's  light,  light  all  around  me,  and  I 
move  towards  it.  Tresham,  you  have  prom- 
ised ?"  said  the  dying  Earl. 

"  I  will  bear  those  words  to  her,"  answered 
Tresham,  slowly  and  tenderly. 

"  Now  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Now !"  said  Tresham.  He  beckoned  to  Ge- 
rard :  "  Lift  the  body,  Gerard,  and  leave  me  the 
head." 

Mertoun  gave  a  sudden  start  as  they  raised 
him. 

"There!"  he  moaned,  "I  knew  they  turned 
me.  Do  not  turn  me  away  from  her!  Stay! 
stay !" 

He  lifted  his  hand  towards  the  light  in  the 
casement  above,  but  it  fell  heavily. 

He  was  dead  in  their  arms,  and  they  laid  him 
softly  on  the  path  beneath  the  old  yew-trees. 

Lady  Gwendolen  spoke  first.  "  Austin,"  she 
said,  "  you  remain  here  with  Thorold  until  Ge- 
rard comes  with  help,  then  lead  him  to  his 
chamber.     I  must  go  to  Mildred." 

Tresham  was  kneeling  near  the  dead  Earl. 
He  did  not  look  up,  but  in  a  voice  broken  with 
grief  he  warned  Gwendolen  that  he  alone  must 
go  to  Mildred. 

At  his  command  Austin  and  Gerard  carried 


88  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  body  up  through  the  trees;  but  Tresham 
pulled  Gwendolen  aside  to  show  her  where  they 
had  fought.  He  was  half  dazed  with  remorse 
and  sorrow,  and  spoke  wildly  of  the  haunting 
shades  which  would  forever  linger  near  the  spot. 

"What  is  done  is  done,"  said  Gwendolen. 
"  My  care  is  for  the  living,  Thorold." 

She  gently  led  him  onward  after  the  others, 
murmuring  as  he  went  a  farewell  to  his  old 
ancestral  trees  under  which  he  had  done  so  dark 
a  deed. 

YI. 

Lady  Mildred  sat  in  her  chamber  above  the 
yew-tree  avenue,  waiting  for  the  Earl  who  lay 
slain  on  the  path  below.  She  was  alarmed  at 
his  delay,  but  there  were  numberless  excuses 
with  which  she  might  quiet  her  fears.  Yet  he 
had  never  failed  her  before,  and  it  was  doubly 
strange  that  on  this  last  night  of  all  he  should 
not  come  as  he  had  appointed.  With  the  pass- 
ing hours  she  grew  more  and  more  fearful  for 
his  safety.  There  was  nothing  that  she  could 
do.  She  was  helpless  and  utterly  alone.  Any 
voice,  any  presence,  would  have  been  welcome, 
and  she  silently  prayed  for  some  relief 

Just  then  there  were  footsteps  in  the  hall 
outside  her  door,  and  a  voice  called, — 

"  Mildred !" 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  89 

"  Come  in  !  Heaven  has  heard  my  prayer," 
she  said.  But  when  she  saw  who  it  was  she 
shrank  back. 

"You,  Thorold,  and  alone?  Oh,  no  more 
cursing!" 

He  motioned  her  to  sit  down,  and  he  himself 
sank  exhausted  into  a  chair.  He  was  very  pale, 
and  dared  not  look  at  her.  She  was  engrossed 
with  her  own  fears,  but  she  saw  his  face  and 
trembled  at  its  expression. 

"  Say  it,  Thorold."  She  spoke  in  a  hard  and 
bitter  tone.  "  Deliver  all  you  came  to  say, — the 
thought  that  makes  you  so  pale." 

"  My  thought?"  he  asked,  absently. 

"  All  of  it,"  she  muttered.     "  I  can  bear  it." 

"  My  thoughts  were  of  long  ago,  Mildred,"  he 
said,  reflectively.  "  How  we  waded  after  those 
water-lilies  till  the  plash  surprised  us,  and  you 
did  not  dare  to  go  on  or  turn  back,  so  we  stood 
laughing  and  crying  till  Gerard  came.  How 
idle  some  men's  thoughts  are!  Dying  men's, 
Mildred " 

He  spoke  the  name  kindly,  and  she  asked, 
with  eyes  half  turned  his  way,  how  it  happened 
that  he  had  softened  towards  her. 

He  had  been  too  severe  in  the  morning,  he  said, 
and  asked  her  to  forgive  him.  She  thought 
he  might  be  mocking  her,  and  was  distressed 
anew,  but  he  soothed  her  tenderly,  and  asked 

8* 


90  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

her  again  to  forgive  him.  Then  she  started  up 
with  quick  fright.  She  had  instinctively  divined 
the  reason  for  the  change  in  him. 

"Why  does  not  Henry  Mertoun  come  to- 
night ?"  she  asked,  vs^ith  wild  alarm. 

There  was  a  pause.  Each  looked  at  the  other 
doubtfully. 

"  You've  murdered  him !"  she  screamed.  "  And 
must  I  forgive  this,  this  and  all  ?  And  yet  I  do 
pardon  you,  Thorold.  How  very  wretched  you 
must  be !" 

"  He  bade  me  tell  you,"  began  Tresham,  gain- 
ing courage  to  speak  from  her  pitying  accents ; 
but  she  cut  him  short  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"  I  forbid  your  utterance  of  it !  What  you 
will  not  tell,  that  I  will  hear : — how  you  mur- 
dered him — but  no! — you'll  tell  me  that  he 
loved  me.    Enough,  I  pardon  you  !" 

He  was  indeed  wretched.  Sunken  in  shape 
and  pale  of  face,  misery  had  overtaken  and 
broken  him  completely.  Pardon,  he  said,  must 
come  from  another  Judge,  whose  doom  he  waited 
with  despondency  and  fear. 

Mildred  was  aroused  to  a  newer  and  fiercer 
Womanhood.  She  stood  erect  and  spoke  with- 
out pity  the  bitterness  that  was  in  her  heart. 

"  He  shall  tell  me  his  last  words  and  take  my 
answer ;  not  in  words,  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
which  death " 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  91 

"  Death,"  gasped  Tresham.  "  You  are  dying 
too  ?  Well  said,  Grwendolen !  I  dared  not  hope 
it." 

"  Tell  Gwendolen  I  loved  her,  and  tell  Aus- 
tin  " 

"  You  loved  him,"  broke  in  Tresham ;  then  in 
beseeching  tones,  "  And  me,  Mildred  ?" 

She  was  softened  by  his  humility,  and  re- 
proached him  but  little  for  the  deed.  He  told 
her  how  he  had  done  it  not  in  wantonness,  but 
in  ignorance,  and  under  sudden  impulse  to 
avenge  her  wrong.  Had  he  but  seen  her  purity 
through  the  troubled  surface  of  crime, — had  he 
but  known  their  story  before,  he  would  have 
stayed  his  hand.  She  forgave  him,  and  fell  at 
last  upon  his  bosom. 

"  There,"  she  murmured,  "  do  not  think  too 
much  on  the  past,  Thorold.  You  hurt  him 
under  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  and  is  that  past 
retrieve  ?  I  have  his  heart,  you  know.  I  may 
dispose  of  it, — I  give  it  to  you,  Thorold.  It  loves 
you  as  mine  loves  you !" 

With  a  sudden  spring  she  rose  from  his  arms. 
Her  hands  were  at  her  throat,  and  she  gasped 
for  breath.  Then  she  fell  heavily  forward  and 
threw  her  arms  anew  about  him.  He  laid  her 
gently  in  the  chair.  But  she  was  dead,  clasping 
him  in  a  sweet  embrace. 

Gwendolen  came  hurriedly  to  the  door.  "  Mil- 


92  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

dred !  Tresham !"  she  called,  and  presently  rushed 
in  with  Austin.  "  Thorold !  I  could  desist  no 
longer.     Ah,  she  swoons, — that's  well." 

"  Oh !  better  far  than  that,  Gwendolen,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

"  She's  dead  !"  said  Gwendolen,  touching  her 
cold  brow.  "Let  me  unlock  her  arms  from 
about  you."  And  she  tried  gently  to  free  Tresham 
from  the  pathetic  embrace. 

"  She  threw  them  about  me  so,  and  blessed 
me,  and  then  died.  You'll  let  them  stay  now, 
Gwendolen  ?"  he  asked,  pleadingly. 

Gwendolen  directed  Austin  to  leave  Mildred 
and  look  to  Thorold.  He  was  whiter  than  she, 
and  a  froth  was  oozing  through  his  clinched 
teeth. 

"Thorold,  Thorold!  why  was  this?"  cried 
Gwendolen. 

He  told  her  in  faltering  sentences.  He  had 
drunk  the  poison  because  earth  could  be  no 
longer  earth  to  him  ;  the  life  was  gone  out  of  life, 

"Already  Mildred's  face  is  peaccfuller,"  he 
said,  faintly.  "  I  see  you,  Austin.  Here  is  my 
hand ;  put  it  in  yours.  You,  Gwendolen,  yours 
too.  You  are  Lord  and  Lady  now.  You  are 
Treshanis.  Name  and  fame  are  yours.  You 
hold  our  'scutcheon  up,  Austin ;  no  blot  on  it. 
You  see  how  blood  must  wash  our  blot  away ; 
the  first  blot  came  and  the  first  blood  came." 


A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  93 

"No  blot  shall  come  again,"  said  Austin, 
soothingly. 

"I  said  that,"  murmured  Tresham,  "yet  it 
did  come.  Should  it  come  again,  remember, 
,  vengeance  is  God's,  not  man's!" 

His  fluttering  spirit  passed  out,  and  the  stain 
of  Mildi-ed's  guilt  had  rich  atonement. 


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EI.IAABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT  BROWNING. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


It  is  my  own  story  that  I  mean  to  tell  you. 
I  am  still  young.  I  have  not  gone  very  far 
inland  from  the  shores  which  babies  see  when 
they  smile  in  their  sleep.  I  can  recall  my 
mother  beside  the  nursery  door  with  a  warning 
finger.  "  Hush  !"  she  would  say ;  "  too  much 
noise,"  while  her  sweet  eyes  took  part  against 
her.  I  still  sit,  as  after  she  had  left  us,  and  feel 
my  father's  hand  stroke  my  curls  out  across  his 
knee.  Even  now  I  can  hear  Assunta's  daily 
jest, — she  knew  he  liked  it  far  better  than  a 
better  jest, — "How  many  golden  scudi  go  to 
make  up  such  ringlets  ?" 

My  mother  was  a  Florentine,  whose  rare  blue 
eyes  were  shut  upon  me  forever  when  I  was 
scarcely  four  years  old.  I  was  born  to  make 
my  father  a  sadder  man,  for  she  was  weak  and 
frail,  and  could  not  endure  the  joy  of  giving  me 
life.  Women  know  best  how  to  rear  up  chil- 
dren. They  have  a  simple  and  tender  knack 
of  tying  sashes,  and  of  stringing  pretty  words 
II.— E  9  97 


98  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

that  have  no  meaning  till  they  kiss  one  into 
them.  Children  learn  by  such  merry  play  the 
real  truth  of  love,  and  early  find  out  the  kind- 
ness of  life  without  succumbing  to  its  solemnity. 
Fathers,  perhaps,  love  as  well, — mine  did,  I 
know, — but  in  a  more  conscious  and  heavier 
way. 

My  father  was  an  austere  Englishman,  who, 
after  a  life  spent  at  home  amid  the  gossips  of 
his  college  and  his  native  parish,  was  overtaken 
with  a  sudden  passion  which  blotted  out  all  the 
traditions  of  his  past. 

One  day  in  Florence,  where  he  had  come  for 
a  month  to  study  Da  Yinei's  drains,  ho  was 
musing  absently  along  the  streets,  when,  in  the 
great  square  of  the  Santissima,  he  saw  drifting 
by  him  a  train  of  priestly  banners  and  some 
maidens  in  white  veils,  crowned  with  roses. 
They  were  holding  up  tall  waxen  tapers,  which, 
so  heavy  were  they  for  the  slight  wrists,  slanted 
into  the  bright  air,  and  dropped  the  melting 
wax  as  they  went.  Among  this  long  trail  of 
chanting  priests  and  girls,  one  face  flashed  on 
his  inattentive  sight  and  shook  him  to  the  heart 
with  an  unaccustomed  vibration.  The  maidens 
were  on  their  way  to  eat  the  Bishop's  wafer, 
and  he  also,  like  them,  received  his  sacramental 
gift,  for  instantly  he  fell  in  love. 

But,  beloved  as  she  was,  my  mother  died.     I 


Aurora  Leigh.  99 

have  heard  it  said  that  to  see  him  in  the  first 
surprise  of  his  widowhood,  nursing  me  as  if 
his  large  hands  were  afraid  to  touch  my  curls 
and  tarnish  the  gold,  and  his  grave  lips  con- 
triving somehow  a  miserable  smile,  would  almost 
make  the  stones  cry  out  for  pity. 

But  he  set  a  pathetic  verse  over  her  grave  in 
Santa  Croce,  and  then  we  left  Florence  and  hid 
among  the  mountains  above  Pelago :  he  with 
his  silent  grief,  and  I,  his  prattling  child.  He 
thought  a  motherless  babe  had  need  more  than 
others  of  Mother  Nature,  and  he  would  often 
tell  me  how  Pan's  white  goats  had  once  come  to 
feed  two  poor  orphans  like  his  own.  His  friends 
say  that  he  loved  to  talk  such  scraps  of  scholar- 
ship, for  even  the  most  prosaic  of  men  who 
wear  grief  overlong  begin  to  tip  it  aside  like  a 
hat  with  a  flower  stuck  in  it. 

"We  lived  for  many  years  there  in  the  moun- 
tains, with  God's  silence  outside  and  our  own 
within-doors.  Old  Assunta,  who  made  up  the 
fires,  would  often  cross  herself  when  a  sudden 
flame  lighted  up  my  mother's  portrait  which 
hung  on  the  wall  above.  It  was  painted  after 
she  was  dead,  and  when  the  artist  had  finished 
the  face  and  hands,  instead  of  the  hateful  Eng- 
lish shroud,  they  gave  him  the  brocade  she  last 
wore  at  the  Pitti  palace.  "He  should  paint 
nothing  sadder  than  that,"  swore  her  faithful 


100  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

cameriera,  and  the  effect  was  therefore  very- 
strange.  I,  as  a  little  child,  would  crouch  for 
hours  on  the  floor,  with  drawn-up  knees,  gazing 
across  half  in  terror  at  it  with  its  swan-like  and 
supernaturally  white  throat  and  face  sailing  up 
from  the  stiff  red  silk  which  seemed  to  be  no 
part  of  it,  nor  to  have  power  to  keep  it  from 
breaking  out  of  bounds. 

Assunta's  awe  and  my  father's  melancholy 
both  pointed  to  some  mysterious  connection 
with  the  picture,  and  my  thoughts  all  wandered 
that  way  even  when  it  was  out  of  my  sight. 
But  while  I  stared  my  childish  wits  away  upon 
it,  my  father,  who,  through  the  kindling  in- 
fluences of  love,  had  thrown  off  the  old  conven- 
tions, yet  had  found  no  time  to  grow  familiar 
again  with  the  sun, — whom  love  had  unmade 
from  a  common  man,  but  not  yet  made  anew 
into  an  uncommon  man, — my  poor  father  taught 
me  what  he  knew  best  before  he  died.  I  learned 
all  his  love  and  grief,  and,  as  we  had  no  lack  of 
books  among  the  hills,  I  learned  from  them  also 
under  his  grave  guidance  the  vanity  of  human 
wisdom. 

They  tell  me  I  am  like  my  dear  father,  but 
with  broader  brows  upon  slenderer  features  ; 
paler,  but  nearly  as  grave.  But  my  mother's 
smile  breaks  up  my  face  now  and  then  and 
makes  it  better  than  it  truly  is. 


Aurora  Leigh.  101 

Well,  we  spent  nine  full  years  hidden  with 
God  among  the  mountains.  I  was  just  thirteen, 
still  growing,  and  with  an  intense,  strong,  strug- 
gling heart.  Then  my  father  died.  His  last 
word  was,  "  Love — love,  my  child,  love,  love !" 
but  before  I  could  answer  he  was  gone,  and  I 
had  no  one  to  love  in  the  wide  world. 

Thus  ended  my  childhood.  What  next  suc- 
ceeded I  recollect  as  men  do  after  fevers, 
threading  back  the  passages  of  delirium.  But 
at  last,  one  day,  a  stranger  came  with  authority 
to  take  me  away  from  old  Assunta.  She  let 
my  arms  go  from  about  her  neck  with  a  shriek, 
while  I,  too  full  of  my  father's  silence  to  cry 
back,  stared  with  a  child's  astonishment  at  her 
grief,  and  saw  the  wharf,  where  she  stood  moan- 
ing, slowly  recede  from  me.  The  white  walls 
and  blue  hills  of  my  Italy  drew  backward  from 
the  shuddering  steamer-deck ;  then  the  sea 
pushed  between  us,  and,  sweeping  up  the  ship 
and  my  despair  together,  threw  us  out  to  the 
hovering  stars. 

We  travelled  on  for  ten  nights  and  days,  then 
came  to  the  frosty  cliffs  of  England.  How 
could  I  ever  find  a  home  among  those  mean  red 
houses  I  saw  through  the  fog?  When  I  first 
heard  my  father's  language  from  alien  lips  I 
wept  aloud  and  laughed  by  turns,  until  they  said 
I  was  mad  from  too  much  sea-sickness.    But  the 

9* 


102  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

train  sped  on,  and,  as  I  looked  from  its  flying 
windows,  I  could  not  believe  this  cold  and  dull 
land  to  be  the  England  so  much  loved  by  my 
father.  I  asked  myself,  "  Did  Shakesjjeare  and 
his  mates  really  absorb  the  light  here  ?"  Not  a 
hill  or  stone  was  there  to  strike  up  a  ray  of  color 
in  the  whole  blurred  landscape. 

At  last  we  arrived.  Even  now  I  can  see 
my  father's  sister  stand  on  the  hall-step  of 
her  country-house  to  welcome  me.  She  was 
straight  and  calm,  her  forehead,  somewhat  nar- 
row, braided  tight,  as  if  to  bridle  her  thoughts 
from  wayward  impulses.  She  had  brown  hair 
pricked  with  gray,  though  she  was  not  old: 
she  was  my  father's  elder  by  only  a  single  year. 
Her  nose  was  sharply  drawn,  yet  in  delicate 
lines,  and  her  mild  mouth  was  a  little  soured 
about  the  ends  through  speaking  unrequited 
loves  or  niggardly  half-truths.  The  eyes  were 
of  no  positive  color.  They  might  have  smiled 
once,  but  they  had  never  forgotten  themselves 
into  actual  laughter.  The  cheeks  still  bore  a 
rose  from  far-away  summers,  like  those  pressed 
in  a  book  and  kept  rather  for  sorrow  than  pleas- 
ure. If  they  were  past  bloom,  they  were  also 
past  fading. 

She  had  lived  a  harmless  life  of  tranquillity 
and  passive  virtue,  which  was  in  fact  scarcely  a 
life  at  all.     The  vicar,  the  country  squires,  and 


Aurora  Leigh.  103 

now  and  then,  as  a  special  condescension,  the  lord- 
lieutenaat,  would  drop  in  to  drink  tea.  Once  a 
year,  too,  the  apothecary  was  admitted,  to  prove 
that  humility  was  not  lacking  in  the  household. 
She  was  a  constant  continbutor  to  the  poor-club, 
because,  after  all,  as  she  said,  we  are  of  one  flesh 
and  blood,  and  need  the  same  flannels, — of  course, 
with  a  proper  difference  in  quality ;  the  book- 
club, guarded,  as  it  properly  was,  from  the 
vanities  of  literature,  supplied  her  a  tepid  men- 
tal nutriment.  She  lived  a  sort  of  cage-bird 
life.  Having  been  born  in  a  cage,  she  considered 
it  quite  joy  enough  for  any  bird  just  to  leap 
from  one  perch  to  another. 

But,  alas,  I,  a  scarcely  fledged  wild  bird,  was 
brought  to  her  cage,  and  she  was  there  to  meet 
me,  oh,  so  very  kind !  She  called  promptly  for 
the  clean  water,  and  commanded  them  to  give 
out  the  fresh  bird-seed ! 

She  was  on  the  steps  calmly  waiting  to  receive 
me, — she  wore  a  black  dress, — and  I  came  up 
and  clung  about  her  neck.  I  could  hear  my 
father's  words :  "  Love,  love,  my  child  !"  Even 
she  in  her  black  garb  might  be  brought  to  feel 
the  ardor  of  my  love.  She  was  his  sister  once, 
and  I  clung  to  her. 

For  a  moment  she  really  seemed  moved, 
and  kissed  me  with  her  cold  lips.  She  drew 
me  feebly  through   the   hall  into  her  sitting- 


104  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

room.  Then,  in  a  strange  spasm  of  pain  and 
passion,  she  wrung  nay  hands  loose  with  an  im- 
perious movement  and  held  me  at  arm's  length. 
Her  two  steel-gray  eyes  searched  through  my 
face  feature  by  feature,  as  if  to  find  a  wicked 
murderer  in  it.  Drawing  a  long  breath,  she 
tried  to  assume  her  ordinary  calmness,  but 
sadly  missed  it,  and  told  me  not  to  shrink,  just 
as  if  she  were  telling  me  not  to  lie  or  swear. 
"  She  loved  my  father,"  she  said,  "  and  would 
love  me  too,  if  I  deserved  it." 

I  understood  afterwards  what  she  had  scanned 
my  face  for.  She  expected  to  find  a  likeness 
of  my  mother  there.  She  had  loved  my  father 
as  truly  and  fondly  as  she  was  able ;  but  she 
hated,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  gentle  souls 
when  they  are  brought  to  hate  another,  the 
Tuscan  woman  who  had  fooled  a  wise  man 
away  from  his  habitual  courses  and  obvious 
duties,  deprived  his  sister  of  the  household 
precedence,  wronged  his  tenants,  robbed  his 
native  land,  and  made  himself  mad  in  life  as 
well  as  in  death.  She  had  pondered  for  years 
what  sort  of  woman  could  be  suitable  to  her 
sort  of  hate,  until  her  very  curiosity  had  be- 
come hate  also.  All  the  idealism  she  had  ever 
known  had  been  used  with  the  same  malevo- 
lence, till  hate  exceeded  the  love  out  of  which 
it  originally  grew,  and  wrinkled  her  conscience 


Aurora  Leigh.  105 

with  a  sense  of  its  presence  in  her,  so  that  she 
winced  when  Christian  doctrine  was  preached 
of  a  Sabbath. 

Thus,  to  me,  my  father's  sister  was  my 
mothei^'s  enemy.  From  that  day  forth  she  did 
her  duty  by  me,  and  I  appreciate  it,  but  it 
was  a  duty  well  pressed  out  and  always  pru- 
dently measured.  She  was  generous,  bland, 
more  courteous  than  tender,  and  always  gave 
me  the  first  place,  as  if  fearing  the  Saints  might 
look  down  suddenly  and  accuse  her  of  missing 
a  point  through  lack  of  love.  But  a  mother  is 
never  afraid  to  speak  crossly  to  her  child,  be- 
cause she  knows  that  love  fully  justifies  all  her 
acts. 

I  was,  on  the  whole,  a  good  child,  quite  meek 
and  very  manageable.  In  fact,  I  did  not  live 
a  free  enough  life  to  have  the  graver  faults. 
There  seemed  to  me  more  true  life  in  my 
father's  grave  than  in  all  England  beside.  I 
thought  only  of  lying  quiet  there  where  I  had 
been  cast,  and,  as  with  sea-weed  on  the  rocks, 
suffering  her  to  prick  whatever  pattern  in  me 
she  chose  until  all  the  sea-salt  had  dried  out  of  me. 
For  this  reason  I  bound  up  my  curls  in  braids: 
she  liked  smoothly-combed  hair.  I  also  left  off 
saying  my  sweet  Tuscan  words,  which  would 
come  back  to  me  at  any  stirring  of  the  heart, 
because  she  desired  my  father's  child  to  speak 


106  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

his  own  tongue.  I  learned  the  collects  and 
catechism  to  please  her,  and  read  various  popular 
synopses  of  inhuman  doctrine  which  had  never 
been  taught  by  John,  because  she  liked  in- 
structed piety.  I  learned  also  my  complement 
of  classic  French, — carefully  excluding  Balzac, — 
and  German  as  well,  since  she  liked  a  liberal 
i-ange  of  education.  I  went  briefly  into  algebra 
and  mathematics,  and  touched  lightly  on  the 
sciences.  I  drew  neatly-draped  goddesses  from 
French  engravings,  and  washed  in — ^rather  say 
washed  out — landscapes  from  nature.  I  learned 
to  dance,  the  polka  and  Cellarius ;  spun  glass ; 
stuffed  birds ;  modelled  wax-flowers ;  and  read 
a  score  of  books  on  womanhood  to  prove  that 
if  women  do  no*t  think  much  themselves  they 
yet  may  teach  thinking  quite  ably  to  others. 
In  brief,  my  aunt  liked  a  woman  to  be  womanly, 
and  Englishwomen,  she  thanked  God,  and 
sighed  (some  people  always  sigh  in  thanking 
God),  were  models  to  the  universe.  Then  at 
last  I  learned  the  cross-stitch,  because  she  dis- 
liked to  see  me  sit  through  the  evenings  with 
empty  hands. 

As  I  look  back  over  those  years  of  education, 
I  wonder  if  Brinvilliers  could  have  suffered  more 
in  the  water-torture,  flood  succeeding  flood  as 
it  did  to  drench  the  impotent  throat  and  split 
the  veins.    Some  feeble  souls  go  out  under  such 


Aurora  Leigh.  107 

a  process ;  many  pine  away  to  lifelong  sickness ; 
I  somehow  endured:  I  had  relations  in  the  Un- 
seen, and  drew  elemental  nourishment  and  heat 
from  Nature,  just  as  earth  feels  the  sun  at  night. 
I  kept  the  life  which  was  thrust  upon  me  on 
the  outside ;  and  I  thank  God  for  all  the  inner 
life,  with  its  ample  room  for  heart  and  lungs, 
and  for  will  and  intellect,  unhindered  by  conven- 
tions. 

At  first  I  was  the  personification  of  patience  : 
did  whatever  she  bade  me  without  heed  of  any- 
thing else  beyond  it.  I  sat  in  the  chair  she 
would  place  for  me  with  its  back  to  the  window 
to  keep  out  the  sight  of  the  great  lime-tree  on 
the  lawn,  that  seemed  to  have  come  there  from 
the  woods  on  purjDOse  to  bring  a  message  to  us ; 
I  walked  demurely  through  her  low  carpeted 
rooms ;  I  read  her  books  ;  was  civil  to  her  cousin 
Eomney  Leigh ;  listened  to  her  vicar ;  served 
tea  to  her  visitors,  and  heard  them  whisper  (I 
blushed  for  joy  to  hear  it),  as  I  handed  a  cup, 
"The  Italian  child,  notwithstanding  her  blue 
eyes  and  quiet  ways,  thrives  badly  in  England. 
She  is  paler  even  than  when  we  came  the  last 
time.     She  will  die  in  this  climate." 

My  cousin,  Eomney  Leigh,  blushed  also  at 
this,  and,  approaching  me  with  sudden  anger, 
said  low,  between  his  teeth,  "You're  wicked 
now !     Do  you  wish  to  die  and  leave  the  world 


108  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

dark  for  others  when  your  own  light  is  blown 
out?" 

I  looked  defiantly  into  his  face.  He  might 
have  known,  I  said,  that  being  what  I  was,  it 
was  natural  for  me  to  like  to  get  away  as  far  as 
I  could  ;  indeed,  some  people  cause  less  trouble 
by  dying.  He  turned  and  slammed  the  door 
abruptly  and  shut  his  dog  out. 

Roniney  Leigh,  my  cousin,  was  my  elder  by  a 
few  years ;  but  he  was  cold  and  shy,  yet  tender 
enough,  too,  when  he  thought  of  it.  He  was 
master  of  Leigh  Hall,  the  nightmare  of  which 
sat  upon  his  youth,  repressing  all  its  delights. 
When  he  came  back  from  college  to  the  country, 
he  very  often  crossed  the  hill  on  visits  to  my 
aunt,  to  whom  he  brought  blue  grapes  from  his 
hot-houses,  while  in  his  other  hand  he  carried 
a  book, — which  proved  always  to  be  mere  statis- 
tics if  I  chanced  to  turn  over  its  leaves.  She 
almost  loved  him,  and  even  sometimes  allowed 
that  he  seemed  to  sigh  my  way.  It  made  him 
easier  to  be  pitiful,  and  as  for  sighing,  it  was 
his  gift. 

So,  sometimes,  she  would  let  him  shut  up  my 
music,  or  push  down  my  needles,  and  lead  me 
out  to  see  the  figs  that  grew  black  at  the  south 
angle  of  the  house,  almost  as  if  they  throve  by 
a  Tuscan  rock.  At  other  moments  she  W'Ould 
turn  her  head  or  go  to  fetch  something,  and 


Aurora  Leigh.  109 

leave  me  long  enough  to  speak  to  him, — of 
course,  for  his  sake, — that  was  simple  enough. 
Sometimes,  too,  he  looked  as  if  he  would  like 
to  rescue  me  utterly  and  forever  from  my  un- 
congenial life.  Once  he  stood  so  near  me  that 
he  suddenly  dropped  a  hand  on  my  head,  which 
was  bent  down  over  my  woman's  work.  It 
touched  me  as  soft  as  rain,  but  I  rose  up  and 
shook  it  off  as  if  it  were  fire, — a  stranger's 
touch  to  take  the  place  of  my  father's  and  yet 
dare  to  seem  soft ! 

I  used  him  for  a  friend  before  I  ever  knew 
him  to  be  one.  It  was  better,  but  also  worse 
afterwards.  We  came  so  close  together  we  saw 
our  differences  too  intimately.  Eomney  Leigh 
was  always  looking  for  the  worms,  I  for  the 
gods.  His  was  a  godlike  nature,  in  that  it 
looked  downward  incurious  of  itself;  and  per- 
haps it  is  well  I  should  remember  how,  in  those 
days,  I  was  a  worm  too,  and  he  looked  down  on  me. 

Maybe  through  his  acts  of  kindness,  yet  more 
through  something  in  myself,  I  certainly  did 
not  die.  Slowly,  like  one  in  a  swoon,  to  whom 
life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of  death,  with  a 
sense  of  separation  and  a  roar  in  the  ears  as 
of  retreating  chariots,  I  awoke  and  rose  up. 
Where  was  I  ?  I  asked  myself  In  the  world, 
my  heart  said,  and  for  uses  I  must  count  worth 
fulfilling. 

10 


110  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

I  had  all  to  myself  a  little  chamber  as  green 
as  a  privet  hedge  where  a  bird  might  choose  to 
build,  though  her  nest  itself  were  only  of-  dead 
sticks  and  straws.  The  carpet  was  pure  green, 
the  small  bed  was  curtained  with  green,  and  the 
folded  shades  hung  green  about  the  window 
that  let  in  the  out-door  world  with  its  own 
abundant  greenery.  You  could  not  so  much 
as  push  your  head  forth  without  getting  a  dash 
of  dew  from  the  honeysuckle, — but  you  were 
baptized  so  into  the  privileges  and  graces  of 
seeing. 

First  came  the  lime, — I  had  enough,  there, 
of  the  lime,  be  sure, — my  morning  dream  was 
hummed  away  by  the  bees  in  it.  Past  the 
lime  was  the  ample  lawn,  which,  after  sweeping 
in  wide  slopes  around  the  house,  went  trickling 
down  through  the  shrubberies  in  a  stream  of 
tender  turf,  and  lost  itself  among  the  acacias, 
over  which  you  saw  the  irregular  line  of  elms 
that  bordered  the  deep  lane.  The  lane  itself 
was  out  of  sight.  It  was  sunk  so  deep  that  no 
foreign  tramp  or  driver  of  Welsh  ponies  could 
guess  whether  such  odors  came  from  a  lady's 
hall  or  a  tenant's  lodge,  yet  his  crooked  stick 
might  pull  down  the  low  trails  of  blossoming 
brier  that  dipped  from  the  wall. 

Behind  the  elms,  again,  and  through  their 
tops,  yow.  could  see  the  folded  hills,  among  the 


Aurora  Leigh.  Ill 

burly  oaks  of  which  smoked  my  cousin  Eomney 
Leigh's  chimneys,  showing  where  Leigh  Hall 
was  hid  by  the  woodlands  about  it. 

Thus  entreated  and  helped  by  the  sweet  in- 
fluences without-doors,  I  could  not  be  wholly 
unthankful.  Before  the  house  was  awake,  and 
long  after  it  slept,  I  would  sit  alone  in  my  room 
drawing  in  the  blessings  of  nature.  The  great 
mother  came  in  softly,  with  a  gradual  step 
among  the  leaves,  a  breath,  or  a  ray  of  light, 
and  the  angels  seemed  to  make  a  place  for  her 
beside  me  as  they  swept  the  room  clean  of 
foolish  thoughts.  The  sun  would  come  in,  too, 
saying,  "  Shall  I  lift  the  light  thus  against  the 
elm-tree  and  you  not  look  ?  Listen,  I  make  the 
birds  sing  for  jon,  yet  God  never  hears  your 
voice  save  when  you  lie  on  your  bed  at  night 
and  weep." 

Then  something  moved  me.  I  wakened  very 
slowly ;  but  at  last  I  threw  the  window  of 
my  soul  wide  open  and  let  the  out-door  sights 
sweep  new  gospels  in.  I  used  to  get  up  very 
early  just  to  watch  the  morning  quicken  in  the 
gray  light.  I  liked  to  hear  the  silence  draw 
apart  like  a  flower  leaf  after  leaf,  while  I 
stroked  the  woodbine  through  the  casement; 
and  at  last  I  came  to  do  it  at  unawares  with  a 
sort  of  foolish  love. 

Temptation  comes  with  the  experiences  of 


112  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

joy,  and  I  often,  after  this,  slipped  down-stairs 
through  the  noiseless  house,  and  escaped,  like 
a  soul  from  a  body,  into  the  garden.  I  would 
glide  through  the  shrubberies,  drop  into  the 
lane,  and  wander  an  hour  or  two  on  the  hills 
before  the  household  was  up.  I  had  my  books, 
too,  in  my  little  chamber,  and  read  them  as  I 
liked,  without  considering  much  whether  they 
were  fit  for  me  or  not.  Indeed,  we  get  no  good 
from  a  book  by  being  ungenerous  to  it  and  cal- 
culating the  profits  that  may  accrue  from  read- 
ing it.  It  is  rather  when  we  gloriously  forget 
ourselves  and  plunge  headlong  into  a  book's 
heart  that  we  get  the  right  good  from  it.  After 
I  had  read  much  for  memory  I  began  to  read 
for  hope.  I  trod  the  pathway  my  father  had 
traced  out  for  me,  striving  to  push  through  the 
thorny  underwood  and  gain  the  shelter  of  the 
trees. 

At  last,  one  day,  I  found  a  secret  garret-room 
in  the  old  house,  which  was  piled  high  with 
cases  marked  with  my  father's  name.  I  nibbled 
here  and  there  at  these,  and  pulled  through  the 
gaps  in  a  kind  of  joyous  terror  the  first  book  I 
could  reach.  Ah,  how  I  felt  it  beating  under 
my  pillow  of  a  morning,  a  whole  hour  before 
the  sun  would  come  up  and  let  me  read  it ! 

At  last,  perhaps  it  was  because  the  time  was 
ripe,  I  chanced  upon  a  set  of  the  poets.     My 


Aurora  Leigh.  113 

soul,  at  the  touch  of  their  immortal  verse, 
altogether  let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up 
convicted  of  the  great  eternities. 

Then  I  found  that  I,  too,  could  write,  and  I 
strung  myriads  of  false  verses  together  like  the 
rest,  thinking  them  true,  perhaps,  because  I  was 
sincere  in  writing  them ;  and  yet  I  have,  perad- 
venture,  written  true  ones  since  with  less  com- 
placence. 

But  I  could  not  long  hide  my  kindling  inner 
life  from  those  about  me.  They  now  and  then 
saw  a  light  at  a  window  which  they  had  not 
set  there,  and  they  questioned.  Who  had  set  it 
there?  My  aunt  started  when  she  saw  my 
awakened  soul  looking  out  of  my  eyes.  She 
could  not  tell  me  I  had  no  business  with  that 
sort  of  soul,  but  she  plainly  objected  to  it. 

"Aurora,"  sometimes  she  would  ask,  "have 
you  done  your  work  this  morning  ?  Have  you 
read  that  book,  and  are  you  ready  for  the 
crochet?"  It  was  as  if  she  had  said,  "I  know 
there's  something  wrong.  I  have  not  ground 
you  down  enough  to  bake  you  into  a  wholesome 
crust  for  household  proprieties."  Then  I  would 
answer,  quietly,  "  Will  you  hear  my  lesson  and 
verify  the  abstract  I  have  made  from  the  book,  or 
shall  I  sit  down  to  the  crochet-work  ?"  Perhaps 
1  would  sit  down  and  ply  the  needle  for  hours 
together.  But  I  was  not  sad,  for  my  soul  was 
II.— A  10* 


114  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

singing  at  quite  another  kind  of  work  behind 
its  walls  of  sense,  as  safe  from  all  harm  as  the 
lark  seems  up  in  the  blue  air. 

Thus  between  enforced  and  spontaneous  work 
the  inner  life  formed  the  outer,  reducing  the 
irregular  blood  to  settled  rhythms  which  struck 
some  fresh  color  across  my  cheeks,  faint  though 
it  was.  I  clinched  my  brows  above  my  blue 
eyes  in  the  looking-glass,  and  said,  "We'll  live, 
Aurora !  we'll  be  strong.  The  dogs  are  upon 
us,  but  we  will  not  die  without  a  struggle." 

Whoever  lives  a  true  life  will  learn  to  love 
true  love.  I  learned  to  love  England  so,  and 
very  often  before  the  day  was  up,  or  through 
the  long  windings  of  the  afternoons,  I  would 
throw  oif  my  hunters  and  plunge  among  the 
deep  hills,  like  a  stag  that  takes  to  the  water 
shivering  with  the  fear  and  passion  of  the 
course.  But  sometimes  I  was  admitted  to  the 
company  of  Eomney  and  his  friend  Vincent 
Carrington,  a  rising  artist,  who  was  said  to  have 
a  bee  in  his  bonnet  because  he  held  that  if  you 
painted  a  body  well  you  also,  by  implication, 
painted  a  soul.  They  were  pleasant  enough 
walks,  these  I  took  in  company,  for  if  the  artist 
happened  to  say,  "When  I  was  last  in  Italy," 
it  sounded  to  me  like  an  instrument  played  too 
far  off  for  the  tune,  and  yet  sweet  to  listen  to. 

Often,  if  Cousin  Eomney  was  pleased  to  tako 


Aurora  Leigh.  115 

me  out,  there  were  only  two  of  us  abroad  to- 
gether. We  would  read,  talk,  or  quarrel  as  it 
might  chance.  We  were  not  lovers,  nor  even 
very  well  matched  friends,  scholars  rather  on 
different  tracks,  thinkers  who  disagreed.  He 
was  overfull  of  what  is,  and  I  was  overbold  for 
what  might  be. 

When  the  thrushes  sang,  I  would  hold  up  my 
finger  and  bid  him  mark  that  notwithstanding 
it  was  an  evil  world,  as  he  said,  certainly  the 
thrushes  still  sang  in  it.  Then  his  brow  would 
soften,  and  he  bore  with  me  in  a  sort  of  melan- 
choly patience.  "  See !"  I  would  cry,  "  God  is 
surely  with  us  on  this  earth ;  and  shall  we  put 
him  down  by  the  things  we  do  ?  Who  says 
there's  nothing  but  poverty  for  the  poor  and 
vile  ?  See  this !"  And  I  jumped  ankle-deep  in 
the  grass  and  clapped  my  hands  for  the  very 
joy  of  being. 

II. 

So  time  went  on,  and  one  day  I  stood  upon 
the  brink  of  my  twentieth  year.  I  was  very 
happy  that  June  morning,  for  I  felt  young  and 
strong  and  seemed  very  sure  of  God.  I  bounded 
forth  in  the  early  dawn  without  thinking  of  a 
bonnet,  for  I  intended  to  keep  my  birthday,  at 
least  till  my  aunt  awoke,  in  the  open  air.  I 
pulled  down  the  branches  to  choose  a  wreath  for 


116  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

myself,  for  my  brows  longed  to  feel  the  touch 
of  a  poet's  garland.  All  the  leaves  were  fair 
and  sweet,  and  I  did  not  know  where  to  choose ; 
but  at  last  I  plucked  a  spray  of  ivy,  because  not 
a  leaf  of  it  grows  without  meaning  to  become 
one  day  a  wreath,  and  because,  too,  I  liked  its 
strength  in  climbing  and  its  boldness  in  leaping 
a  height;  then,  moreover,  how  pretty  it  looks 
twisted  around  a  comb.  So  thinking,  I  twisted 
the  wreath  about  my  head,  and  was  fastening 
it  behind,  when,  turning  suddenly,  I  faced  my 
cousin  Eomney.  His  grave  eyes  scanned  me 
with  a  serious  glance,  and  his  mouth  was  graver 
even  than  his  eyes. 

I  stood  there  fixed.  My  arms  were  up,  like 
those  of  a  caryatid,  in  a  helpless  gesture  which 
mocked  their  original  purpose.  I  blushed  very 
consciously. 

"  Aurora  Leigh,"  he  said,  "  the  very  earliest 
of  Auroras !" 

I  took  the  hand  he  stretched  out,  like  a  ship- 
wrecked man  inditferent  to  his  means  of  suc- 
cor. The  tide  had  caught  me  at  my  foolish 
pastime  of  writing  my  name  down  near  the  sea, 
and  I  was  drowned  in  a  blush. 

"  You,  cousin !"  I  exclaimed. 

The  smile  died  out  of  his  eyes  and  for  just  a 
moment  hovered  across  his  lips. 

"  Here's  a  book  I  found.     !No  name  on  it. 


Aurora  Leigh.  117 

Poems,  I  suppose,  by  the  form.  Some  Greek  on 
the  margin, — lady's  Greek,  without  accents.  1 
did  not  dare  to  read  it.  I  saw  at  a  glance  the 
thing  had  witchcraft  in  it,  so  I  brought  it  to  the 
witch  herself." 

"My  book,"  I  said,— "you  found  it?" 

"  Yes ;  in  the  hollow  down  there  by  the  stream." 

"  Thank  you,  cousin." 

"  Thank  you,  rather,  cousin,  that  I  have  not 
found  you  too  much  of  a  witch  and  poet  to  be  a 
woman  as  well." 

The  smile  came  in  his  grave  eyes  again  as  he 
glanced  at  my  ivy  wreath. 

"  Well,  poets  must  needs  exist,  whether  they 
be  men  or  women,"  I  said. 

"  True ;  but  neither  men  nor  women  need  be 
poets.  Keep  to  the  green  wreath,  pretty  cousin. 
Even  to  dream  of  stone  or  bronze  will  bring 
headaches  and  soil  white  dresses." 

"  So  you  judge !"  I  answered,  warmly.  "  For 
my  part,  I  choose  headaches,  and  to-day's  my 
birthday." 

"  Dear  Aurora,"  he  said,  "  choose  rather  to 
cure  them.     You  have  balsams." 

"  The  headache,  then,  is  too  noble  for  my  sex ; 
you  think  the  heartache  a  likelier  malady. 
That's  woman's  special  ache,  and  very  tolerable 
— except,  perhaps,  to  a  woman."  Saying  this,  I 
loosed  my  wreath  and  swung  it  beside  me  as  we 


118  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

walked  onward.  1  looked  askance  at  him,  try- 
ing to  divine  his  thought.  He  did  not  answer, 
and  we  paced  on  until,  just  in  sight  of  the  house, 
he  abruptly  caught  at  one  end  of  the  swinging 
wreath. 

"  Aurora,"  was  all  he  said. 

I  stopped  short. 

Then  he  began  anew :  "  Aurora,  come,  let 
us  be  serious,  and  stop  playing  at  this  game 
of  head  and  heart.  Life  means  both,  and  both 
in  earnest.  That  book  of  yours,  I  have  not 
read  a  word  of  it,  and  yet  the  chances  are  that, 
being  a  woman  with  such  a  pair  of  large,  calm 
eyes,  you'll  write  as  well — or  ill — on  the  whole, 
as  other  women.  Even  if  as  well,  what  then  ? 
Even  if  a  little  better,  still,  what  then  ?  We 
want  the  best,  the  best  only,  in  art.  The  time 
is  gone  by  for  facile  rearing  of  small  gods. 
The  world's  hard  pressed:  the  sweat  of  labor 
has  turned  to  acid  on  the  yeoman's  brow. 
There's  no  time  to  sit  upon  a  bank  and  hear 
the  cymbals  tinkle  in  white  hands.  When 
Egypt's  slain,  then  let  Miriam  sing,  say  I !  Be- 
fore,— our  cr}"  is,  Where's  Moses  ?" 

"  Exactly,"  I  replied.  "Where's  Moses?  Can 
a  Moses  be  found  ?  Not  in  the  bulrushes  of  to- 
day. I,  at  any  rale,  may  be  of  use.  with  my 
cymbals  in  colonizing  the  bees." 

"  There  it  is !"  said  he.   "  You  play  like  a  child 


Aurora  Leigh,  119 

beside  a  death-bed.  Women  never  understand 
these  things.  You  make  doting  mothers  and 
perfect  wives,  even  sublime  Madonnas  ;  but  we 
get  no  Christ  from  you,  and,  in  my  mind,  we 
shall  never  get  a  poet." 

"  From  which  you  conclude ?"  said  I. 

"  Only  this,  Aurora :  that  you,  with  that  large, 
live  brow,  cannot  condescend  to  play  at  art. 
You  will  never  be  satisfied  with  the  kind  of 
praise  men  give  a  woman  when  they  judge  her 
book, — not  as  mere  work,  but  as  mere  woman's 
work.  '  What  delicate  discernment !  It  nearly 
approaches  to  thought.  We  make  room  among 
our  female  authors  for  another  fair  writer.  The 
country  that  can  produce  such  women,  com- 
petent to — spell '  " 

"  Stop  there !"  I  cried.  "  You  have  read  my 
soul,  if  not  my  book.  Surely,  I  would  not  con- 
descend for  such  praise.  Far  better  to  pursue 
a  frivolous  trade  seriously  than  a  sublime  art 
frivolously." 

"  Then  choose  nobler  work  than  either,"  he 
said.  "  You  and  I  are  young,  Aurora.  We 
have  come  too  late  into  the  world.  It  is  swollen 
hard  with  the  sins  of  perished  generations.  But 
can  we  stand  calmly  by  and  make  no  effort  to 
cure  the  disease  ?" 

"  Ah,  cousin,"  I  said,  "  I  have  not  been  very 
long  on  the  strand  of  life,  and  these  salt  waters 


120  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

have  Bcarcely  yet  wet  my  feet.  I  cannot  judge 
the  tides  now.  Perhaps  I  shall  do  better  here- 
after. A  woman  is  always  younger  than  a  man 
of  the  same  age,  because  she  is  kept  away  from 
the  maturing  out-door  sun  and  air.  You  men 
judge  otherwise,  I  know.  You  think  a  woman 
grows  ripe  as  a  peach  does,  chiefly  in  the  cheeks. 
I  am  not  able  to  solve  your  hard  social  ques- 
tions, but  I  can  applaud  Christian  thoughts  that 
outrun  personal  aims.  Accept  my  reverence, 
cousin." 

He  glowed  upon  me  with  all  his  face  and 
eyes. 

"  No  other  help  ?"  he  said.  "  !N^o  more  than 
that  ?" 

"What  help?"  I  asked.  "  You'd  scorn  other 
help  from  me,  as  ISTature,  you  say,  has  scorned 
to  intrust  her  music  to  me,  because  I  am  a 
woman.  Now  you  turn  round  and  ask  for 
what  you  say  a  woman  cannot  give  you." 

"  I  ask  for  what  she  only  can  give,"  he  said, 
catching  my  hands  and  looking  down  on  me 
with  all  the  passion  of  his  soul.  "  I  ask  for 
love ;  for  a  life  of  fellowship  through  bitter 
duties;  for  wifehood,  —  will  she  give  me 
that  ?" 

"  Now  may  God  be  witness  betwixt  us  two," 
I  said,  and,  with  the  words,  I  seemed  to  float 
in  a  sudden  light  far  above  his  stature.    "  Am  I 


Aurora  Leigh.  121 

too  weak  to  stand  alone,"  thought  I,  "  yet 
strong  enough  to  bear  such  an  added  weight  on 
my  shoulders?"  I  paused  a  moment, — perhaps 
my  face  darkened  a  trifle, — then  I  went  on : 
"  Yes,  that's  always  the  way :  anything  will  do 
for  a  wife." 

"Aurora,  dear,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "you  trans- 
late me  ill.  I  do  not  contradict  my  reverent 
thought  of  you  with  another  which  is  any  the 
less  so.  If  your  sex  is  weak  in  art, — and  when 
I  said  so  it  was  but  to  use  truth  in  courtship, — 
it  is  strong  in  life  and  duty.  Ah,  my  sweet ! 
come  with  me,  and  we'll  go  together  where  your 
touch  shall  heal  the  world's  victims.  Every 
man  there  will  seem  a  brother,  every  woman 
will  wear  your  mother's  face." 

"  You  do  well  to  name  her  face,"  I  answered, 
slowly.  ("Though  she  was  taken  from  me  so 
soon,  I. have  found  little  love  since,  save  in  that 
one  face.  What  you  love  is  not  a  woman,  Rom- 
ney :  you  simply  want  a  helpmate.  Your  cause 
is  noble,  indeed ;  but  I  have  another  conception 
of  love,  so  fare  you  well !" 

"  Farewell,  Aurora  ?     You  rejecfme,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  were  married  long  ago,  Eomney, 
to  your  social  theory.    Bless  you  both  !" 

"  So  you  jest  as  usual,"  he  said,  bitterl3\ 

"  No ;  I  speak  in  good  earnest." 

"  And  must  it  indeed  be  farewell  ?"  he  pleaded, 
p  11 


122  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Was  I  so  much  mistaken  when  I  took  woman 
to  be  nobler  than  man,  and  yourself  the  noblest 
of  women?  Wrong,  too,  in  venturing  to  say 
the  truth  out  bluntly  to  you,  instead  of  using 
the  old  romantic  formula,  '  Lady,  thou  art  won- 
drous fair ;  turn  round  and  love  me  or  I  will 
die !'  " 

"  You  misconceive  the  question,"  I  broke  in, 
with  restrained  indignation.  "  Whoever  says 
'  Love  me  and  work  with  me'  to  a  woman  will 
get  a  fair  answer  if  the  work  and  love,  however 
good  in  themselves,  are  good  for  her, — the  very 
best  she  was  born  for.  For  me,  your  work  is 
not  the  best,  nor  your  love.  You  force  me,  sir, 
to  be  overbold  in  thus  speaking  of  myself;  but 
I,  too,  have  my  vocation.  The  artist  must  keep 
roads  open  between  the  seen  and  the  unseen. 
It  takes  the  ideal  to  blow  a  hair's-breadth  from 
the  dust  of  the  actual.  Perhaps,  as  you  say, 
I'm  not  worthy  of  work  like  this  ;  yet  I  aspire, 
and  if  I  fail,  why,  burn  up  my  straw  like  other 
false  works,  and  all's  done." 

I  remember  the  very  last  word  I  said  that  day 
like  the  creaking  of  a  door  which  has  once  let  in 
some  bad  news.  I  know  I  did  not  love  him, 
nor  he  me,  and  what  I  said  I  have  never  re- 
pented of,  as  the  truth  never  is  repented  of 
Yet  he  was  a  princely  fellow,  and  if  he  had 
loved  me  truly — well,  I  might  have  been  a  con- 


Aurora  Leigh.  123 

ventional  mother  now,  perhaps  happier  and 
better  after  all. 

But  as  we  were  parting,  a  hurried  footstep 
came  towards  us  on  the  grass,  and  my  aunt, 
with  her  smile  of  welcome  distorted  by  the  sun, 
broke  in  with, — 

"  Eomney — here !  Why,  my  child,  entreat 
him  to  come  into  the  house,  and  have  your  talk 
out  there,  if  girls  must  talk  on  their  birthdays." 

He  answered  for  me  very  calmly.  His  pale 
lips  seemed  to  try  in  vain  to  smile. 

"  The  talk  is  ended,  here  where  we  stand, 
madam,"  he  said.  "  Your  brother's  daughter  has 
dismissed  me.     Farewell." 

Then  he  vanished.  I  could  hear  his  heel 
ringing  bluntly  down  the  lane. 

"  What  means  this,  Aurora  Leigh  ?"  cried  my 
aunt.  "  My  brother's  daughter  has  been  dismiss- 
ing my  guests  ?" 

The  lion  in  me  was  tamed  at  the  keeper's 
voice.  I  was  quelled  before  her  and  prayed  her 
pardon. 

"  I  little  thought  to  dismiss  a  friend  of  yours, 
aunt.  I  simply  let  a  friend  go  who  came  to 
take  me  into  his  service  as  a  wife." 

"  Why,  you  must  be  mad !"  she  flashed  back 
at  me.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  to  my  face 
that  Eomney  Leigh  has  asked  you  to  marry 
him  and  you  have  refused  him  ?" 


124  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Did  he  ask  ?"  said  I.  "  Eather,  I  think  he 
stooped  to  employ  me  to  do  certain  duties  he 
had  for  a  wife.     He  never  asked  at  all." 

"  What  stuff!"  she  said.  "  Why,  they  act  like 
queens,  these  haughty  girls.  They  must  have 
mantles  stitched  with  twenty  silks  and  spread 
out  at  their  feet  before  they'll  take  a  step  towards 
the  noblest  lover  ever  born." 

"  But,  dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "  I  was  born  to  walk 
in  other  ways  than  those  of  his  choosing." 

"  You  walk  !  you  walk !"  she  cried.  "  Why,  a 
year-old  baby  will  walk  as  well  as  j'ou.  God 
help  you,  you  are  groping  in  the  dark.  You 
suppose,  perhaps,  that  you,  the  sole  offspring  of 
a  wealthy  man,  are  rich  and  free  to  walk  where 
you  will  ?  You  think,  too, — and  it's  reasonable 
enough, — that  I,  being  well-to-do,  will  leave  my 
handful  to  you.  But  pray,  child,  pray,  even 
though  you  do  not  love  me,  that  I  may  not  die, 
for  when  I  do  out  you  go,  unless  I  make  room 
for  you  in  my  grave, — out  j^ou  go  from  house  and 
home,  without  the  right  to  a  single  blade  of 
grass  beneath  these  trees.  This  is  the  fruit  my 
brother  planted  in  his  foreign  loves, — don't  look 
astonished  at  me  with  your  mother's  great  eyes, 
— for  it  was  they  who  set  you  where  you  are 
now,  a  dowerless  orphan.  Your  father's  choice 
of  that  mother  disinherited  his  daughter.  Men 
do  not  think  of  sons  and  daughters  when  they 


Aurora  Leigh.  125 

are  in  love,  much  less  of  sisters,  otherwise  he 
would  have  paused  before  he  broke  that  clause 
ill  the  entail  excluding  offspring  by  a  foreign 
wife, — the  clause  set  up  a  century  ago  by  a  Leigh 
who  wedded  a  French  dancing-girl  and  had  his 
heart  danced  upon  as  his  reward.  Our  cousin 
Vane,  Eomney's  father,  wrote  directly  after  }^ou 
were  born  to  your  father  in  Italy :  '  I  ask  your 
daughter  for  my  son,  in  whom  by  law  the  entail 
now  mei'ges.  Betroth  her  to  us  for  love  alone, 
and  she  shall  not  lose  either  by  love  or  law 
hereafter.'  You  remember  Vane,  and  how  he 
drew  you  up  to  his  knees  just  before  he  died  and 
wished  your  cheeks  redder?  And  now  his  son, 
to  whom  my  pittance  shall  go, — except  a  few 
books  and  a  pair  of  shawls, — is  generous  like 
him  and  prepared  to  carry  out  his  word  and 
thought  to  you.  Surel}^,  a  fine  young  man  is 
Romney,  though  he  is  fevered  now  with  these 
dreams  of  doing  good  to  good-for-nothing  people. 
But  a  wife  will  put  all  that  straight." 

Here  I  interrupted.  I  could  scarce  lift  my 
head  to  breathe  till  now,  but  at  last  I  raised  it, 
and  the  words  came  in  broken  syllables : 

"  There's  no  need  for  him  to  wait.  The  dream 
of  doing  good  to  me,  at  least,  is  ended.  We've 
escaped  that  danger,  and  thank  Heaven  for 
it." 

"You,  too,  have  taken  the  fever!"  she  cried. 

11* 


126  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"What!  I  tell  you  plainly  that  you  will  be 
homeless,  friendless,  without  your  cousin,  and 
you  still  maintain  there's  room  between  you  for 
flirting  fans  and  such  coquetry  !  Why,  you  do 
not  value  a  noble  heart  above  book-patterns. 
Fie,  fie — but  stay,  I'll  write  to  Eomney  and  set 
all  straight  again." 

She  would  have  hurried  in,  but  I  clung  to  her 
arm. 

"Oh,  dear  aunt,  hear  me!  I  say  no,  no!  I 
can  at  least  live  my  soul's  life  without  alms 
from  men.  If  it  must  be  in  heaven  instead  of 
earth,  why,  I  am  not  afraid." 

She  seized  both  my  hands  in  hers  and  pierced 
me  through  with  her  probing  eyes. 

"And  yet,  you  foolish  sweet,  you  love  this 
man,"  she  said,  slowly  and  coaxingly.  "  I've 
watched  you  when  he  came  and  went,  and  when 
we've  talked  about  him.  I  know  the  weather- 
signs  of  love.    You  love  him,  Aurora." 

I  blushed,  I  know.  I  can  feel  the  brand  on 
my  forehead  even  now ;  and  she  interpreted 
this  for  a  sign.  Then  the  next  minute  I  grew 
white  and  cold.  As  my  blood  recoiled  from  the 
indignity,  I  made  my  heart  great  with  it.  I 
spoke  at  last  some  passionate  words  all  ground 
up  with  sobs.  She  let  my  hands  drop,  and  her 
smile  vanished  into  sedate  disgust. 

"  We'll  have  no  Italian  manners,  if  you  please," 


Aurora  Leigh.  127 

elie  said.  "  Yoa  had  an  English  father,  and  might 
find  it  possible  to  speak  a  quiet  yes  or  no  like 
English  girls.  In  another  month  youU  give  a 
different  answer." 

With  this  she  went  in  and  left  me  standing 
in  the  garden. 

I  cried  a  little  with  agitation  and  dread,  and 
then  I  could  not  help  smiling. 

"Farewell,  good  Eomney,"  I  murmured  to 
myself  "  Even  if  I  loved  you  I  could  not  afford 
to  let  you  be  so  generous  to  me." 

I  stooped  down  then  and  picked  up  the  soiled 
garland  from  where  it  had  fallen.  I  have  kept 
it  ever  since.  It  is  in  the  drawer  over  there. 
It  was  the  first,  and  the  rest  are  all  like  it. 

Afterwards,  before  evening,  I  had  a  note, 
which  ran : 

"  Sweet  Chaldean,  you  read  me  backward  as 
they  do  Eastern  books.  Eead  a  little  plainer 
now.  Did  you  really  hate  me  yesterday?  I 
loved  you  truly,  for  my  part.  If  I  spoke  un- 
tenderly  this  morning,  pardon  me,  and  believe 
that  I  love  you  so  much  I  place  you  on  the  level 
of  my  own  soul.  Henceforth  you  shall  be 
planted  out  of  the  reach  of  my  habitual 
thoughts,  and  lean  any  side  you  please ;  only 
let  me  have  your  perfume  always  about  my 
home." 

In  answer  to  this  I  wrote : 


128  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  We  Chaldeans  see  deeper  than  we  read.  I 
did  not  hate  you  yesterday,  and  yet  I  do  not 
love  you  enough  to-day.  Take  this  word  frankly, 
and  let  it  stop  you  from  speaking  further.  This 
flower  you  would  transplant  has  to  say  to  you 
only  what  the  antique  tomb  said  to  travellers : 
'  Siste,  viator.^     Pause." 

A  week  passed  without  incident,  and  several 
after  likewise,  Eomney  did  not  come,  and  my 
aunt  refrained  from  chiding  me.  I  lived  on 
and  on  as  if  my  heart  were  kept  beneath  a 
glass  cover,  and  everybody  stood  all  eyes  and 
ears  to  see  it  and  hear  it  tick. 

But  in  the  sixth  week  the  dead  sea  suddenly 
broke  up.  The  clock  had  struck  nine  one  morn- 
ing, the  lark's  song  came  floating  down  to  me 
through  the  still  July  weather,  and  the  wood- 
bine blew  in  and  out  of  my  window.  There  I  sat 
in  peace,  and  wished  such  a  morning  truce  could 
last  forever.  Oh  that  my  aunt  might  sleep  on 
and  spare  me  from  her  prying  eyes  ! 

Suddenly,  from  the  bottom  of  the  house, 
there  arose  a  single  ghastly  shriek,  and  in  an 
instant  the  whole  interior  was  alive  with  the 
clamor  of  voices  and  slamming  of  doors. 

I  sprang  up  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  There,  confronting  me  at  my  door,  was 
a  white  face  with  shivering  lips. 

"  Come,  come !"  they  said.  And,  without  asking 


Aurora  Leigh.  129 

a  question,  I  went  reeling  down-stairs  as  if  I 
were  drawn  by  a  ghost. 

TJaere  sat  my  aunt  bolt  upright  in  the  chair 
by  her  bed.  She  had  used  no  bod  that  night, 
yet  she  slept  overwell.  The  silent  derision  pict- 
ured on  her  face  seemed  to  mock  at  the  sun 
which  had  streamed  into  the  chamber  when 
Susan  drew  the  curtains,  ignorant  of  who  sat 
open-eyed  behind  her.  The  rigid  figure  held  a 
letter  with  an  unbroken  seal  in  its  hand,  as 
Susan  had  delivered  it  the  night  before. 

I  could  not  believe  that  those  were  the  eyes 
which  had  watched  me  so  searchingly  and 
dogged  me  up  and  down  for  days  together.  I 
had  prayed  only  a  half-hour  back  to  be  rid  of 
their  burden,  had  bid  them  sleep  late  and  free 
me  of  their  scrutiny,  and  now  they  slept  indeed. 
'  God  answers  some  prayers  with  a  strange  sud- 
denness. Every  wish  is  like  a  prayer  with  Him, 
and  at  last  I  had  my  one  wish  gratified, — to 
fashion  my  life  in  my  own  way,  and  marry  or 
not  marry  as  I  pleased. 

The  heir  came  over  to  the  funeral,  and  we 
met  once  more  by  the  dead.  When  the  will 
had  been  read  and  all  the  rest  had  left  the 
house,  we  rose  up  in  a  silence  which  was  almost 
hard  and  looked  keenly  at  one  another. 

"  Farewell,  cousin,"  I  said. 

He  just  touched  my  hat-strings,  already  tied 
Il.-i 


130  Tales  from  Ten  Poets.      ■ 

for  going.  The  carriage  stood  waiting  at  the 
door. 

"  Sisfe,  viator"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  a  little 
unsteady. 

"  Is  there  time  to  stop  for  a  moral  in  these 
days  of  railroads  ?"  I  asked. 

"  For  necessary  words,  there  is,"  he  gravely 
answered.  "  We  have  just  heard  a  will  which 
gives  you  all  the  money  and  personal  property 
of  3^our  aunt." 

"  I  thank  her  memory  for  it,"  I  said.  "  With 
three  hundred  pounds  I  can  buy  standing-room 
to  work  in." 

"  Yet,  cousin,"  he  said,  "  you  are  richer  than 
you  imagine.  The  will  says,  '  Three  hundred 
pounds  and  any  other  sum  which  the  said  testa- 
trix dies  possessed  of  She  died  possessed  of 
other  sums." 

"Dear  Eomney,"  I  said,  "need  we  count  the 
odd  pence?  I'm  richer  than  I  thought  I  was, 
that's  evident." 

"  But  listen ;  you've  got  to  do  with  a  cousin 
who  understands  business.  The  other  sum  is 
thirty  thousand  pounds.  It  is  unspecified  in 
any  will  which  dates  after  its  possession,  yet  it 
is  bequeathed  to  you  as  clearly  as  this  three 
hundred  pounds,  ^ow,  when  and  where  will 
you  have  it  paid?" 

"  Pause  there,"  I  said.     "  You  are  delicate  in 


Aurora  Leigh.  131 

your  manner  of  making  gifts ;  but  I,  who  am 
also  a  Leigh,  am  made  rather  for  giving  than 
for  taking  like  a  pensioner." 

I  turned  to  go,  but  he  stopped  me  with  a 
proud  gesture. 

"  A  Leigh  gives  love  or  largesse,  but  never 
glosses  in  giving.  Least  of  all  would  he  do  that 
to  a  Leigh.  But  now  let  me  make  it  clear  to 
you  that  your  aunt  owned  this  money." 

"  You  must  bring  documents  and  prove  dates, 
then,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  now  you  throw  off  your  bonnet  as  if  you 
had  time  for  a  logarithm.  I  know  your  thoughts, 
cousin.  I  inherit  your  father's  wealth  and  make 
you  poor.  Under  ordinary  conditions  you  might 
feel  like  taking  some  compensation.  But,  beside 
this,  I  love  you,  and  you  reject  me.  You  cannot 
take  from  a  suitor's  hand  what  would  come  with- 
out objection  from  a  relative's.  Yet  you'll  trust 
me,  won't  you,  to  keep  your  honor  pure  ?" 

"  I  believe  in  no  honor  kept  by  another,"  I 
answered.  "You  face  a  man  who  wants  in- 
struction, not  a  woman  who  wants  protection. 
Speak  out  plainly  as  you  would  to  a  man.  Be 
precise ;  give  dates  and  facts.  My  aunt  inher- 
ited this  sum,  you  say " 

"  I  said  she  died  possessed  of  it,  cousin." 

"Not  by  heritage,  then?  We're  getting  at 
last  to  the  facts." 


132  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Well,  there  was  no  cause  why  your  aunt 
should  refuse  a  deed  of  gift  from  me,  was 
there  ?" 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so !"  I  exclaimed.    "  A  gift !" 

"  Yery  natural  to  think  so,"  he  said,  "  and  a 
very  natural  gift." 

"  Surely,"  I  replied ;  "  yet,  her  own  life  being 
placed  safe  above  all  want,  she  was  too  proud  to 
accept  a  gift  without  some  ultimate  aim.  Ah, 
I  see:  the  gift  was  plainly  intended  for  her 
heirs.  I  am  snared  then,  perhaps.  Just  so. 
But,  sir,  how  can  you  justify  such  an  insult?" 

"  What  need  is  there  to  tremble  and  pant  like  a 
netted  lioness,  Aurora  ?  Is  it  my  fault  that  you 
are  a  wild  creature  of  the  woods  and  hate  the 
stall  built  for  you  ?  At  any  rate,  you're  entirely 
free  from  me." 

"  And  this  gift  of  yours,  when  was  it  offered 
and  accepted  ?"  I  said.  "  Come,  bring  your  dates. 
When  was  it?" 

"  What  matters  that  ?"  he  answered.  "  A  half- 
hour  or  a  half-year  before  she  died  makes  the 
gift  just  as  binding.  No  power  can  make  you 
poor  again  now,  cousin." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  ask  you — I  insist  on  the  special 
date,"  said  I,  with  firmness. 

"  The  gift  was  placed  in  her  hands  the  day 
before  she  died.  We  will  find  the  deed  and 
certify  the  date  to  you." 


Aurora  Leigh.  133 

I  looked  at  him  in  triumph.  "  My  .dear  cousin 
Eomney,"  I  said,  "we  have  at  last  reached  the 
top  of  this  difficult  question.  But  I  had  forgot- 
ten to  tell  you  before  that  this  letter — unread, 
remember,  still  sealed — was  found  in  the  poor 
dead  hand.  I  know  your  writing,  Romney. 
You'll  find  that  famous  deed  of  gift  in  this 
letter,  which,  not  being  mine,  I  give  you  back. 
You  refuse  to  take  it  ?  Well,  then,  you  and  I, 
as  writer  and  heiress,  open  it.  Even  so, — the 
words  are  noble,  cousin.  Here's  a  proof  of  gift, 
but  no  proof  of  acceptance.  Eather  disproof" 
As  I  spoke,  I  tore  the  paper  up  and  let  it  flut- 
ter away  on  the  floor. 

Then,  foiled  in  his  eflbrts  to  do  me  a  service, 
but  still  serene,  he  broke  the  silence  : 

"  I  may  ask,  perhaps,  although  no  stranger, 
only  Romney  Leigh,  which  means  even  less 
than  Vincent  Carrington,  what  plans  you  have 
in  leaving  here.     That  cannot  be  a  secret  ?" 

"  1  am  going  to  London,"  I  said,  "  to  live  my 
life  straight  out,  vocally  in  books,  or,  should  I 
fail,  still,  to  live  it  my  own  way.  And  you, 
Romney  ?" 

"  I  ?"  he  said.  "  And  you  care  to  ask  ?  Well, 
girls  have  curious  minds.  I've  my  woi-k,  you 
know.  While  you  sing  your  happy  pastorals,  I 
shall  be  trying  to  prove  to  stifled  brains  that 
nature  sings  itself  and  asks  for  no  accompany- 

12 


134  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ing  poet.  You  lovers  of  the  beautiful  despise 
my  system." 

"  I  despise  ?  The  scorn  is  your  own,  cousin. 
Men  become  poets  only  by  scorning  nothing. 
They  respect  your  practical  good  as  being  a 
part  of  beauty  itself," 

He  did  not  answer,  and  we  stood  for  an  in- 
stant in  silence.  Then  I  said,"  Adieu,  Eomney." 
And  he  helped  me  into  the  carriage,  and  I 
drove  away. 

It  is  seven  years  since  then.  I  am  used  now 
to  other  ways  from  quite  different  men.  But 
we  let  go  our  hands,  my  cousin  and  I,  that  day, 
and  the  world  rushed  between  us  in  a  torrent, 
barring  forever  our  mutual  sight  and  touch. 

III. 

When  my  cousin  and  I  had  thus  parted,  I 
travelled  to  London  and  took  a  chamber  in 
Kensington.  It  was  up  three  flights  of  stairs, 
dark  and  steep,  but  I  worked  there  serenely  for 
three  good  years  in  spite  of  the  solitude.  I  did 
some  excellent  things  indifferently  and  some 
bad  things  excellently.  I  bent  to  my  task  day 
and  night.  I  suppose  the  roses  went  out  of  my 
cheeks,  for  people  would  come  and  say,  "  You 
are  working  too  hard.  You  look  ill."  But  I 
smiled  pityingly  in  return  for  their  sympathy, 
and  thought  I  should  be  better  soon. 


Aurora  Leigh.  135 

One  day  a  lady  called  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before.  She  had  a  low  voice,  a  self-possessed 
manner,  and  yet  withal  was  gracious  and  con- 
ciliating. She  told  me  quite  simply  that  her 
name  was  Lady  Waldemar,  as  if  it  meant  but 
little,  yet  still  something.  She  took  my  hands 
and  smiled  : 

« Is  this,  then,  the  Muse  ?" 

"  Not  even  a  sibyl,"  I  answered,  "  since  she 
fails  to  guess  why  you  have  taxed  yourself  to 
visit  her,  madam.'' 

"  Good !  I  value  sincerity.  Perhaps  if  I  had 
found  a  real  Muse  I  should  indeed  have  been 
taxed  by  the  visit."  She  still  panted  from  the 
long  climb  up  the  stairs,  but  a  silvery  laugh 
ran  through  her  quickened  breath. 

"  Still,  your  ladyship  has  left  me  curious  to 
know  why  you  took  the  risk  of  finding  such  a 
Muse." 

"  Well,  naturally,  you  think  I've  come  here 
as  a  lion-hunter  to  entrap  you  for  my  drawing- 
room.  But  that  is  not  my  errand."  She  bent 
her  head  an  instant ;  then,  raising  it  suddenly 
with  a  look  of  queenly  command  which  dis- 
dained even  to  spare  herself,  she  said, — 

"  I  think  you  have  a  cousin  called  Eomney 
Leigh." 

"  You  bring  me  word  from  him  ?"  I  said,  with 
my  eyes  leaping  up  to  hers, — "  word  from  him !" 


136  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"Word  about  him.  But  first,"  she  asked, 
coaxingly,  "  you  do  not  love  him — do  you  ?" 

"  You  are  frank,  madam,  at  least,"  I  replied. 
"  I  love  Romney  in  a  cousinly  way, — nothing 
more." 

"  So  I  guessed,"  she  said.  "  I'm  ready  to  be  as 
frank  in  answering,  if  you  will  question  me.  I 
can  speak  to  you,  an  artist,  who  rise  somewhat 
above  the  common  sex,  without  the  shame  one 
feels  in  confiding  in  those  on  our  own  level. 
The  saints  are  so  far  off  we  lose  our  modesty 
before  them.  May  I  confide  in  you  ?  Well, 
then,  frankly,  it  is  I  who  love  Romney  Leigh." 

"But  why  make  such  a  confession  to  me? 
I  am  not  the  Muse,  still  less  am  I  a  saint,  or 
even  a  friend." 

"  That's  unkindly  said  !  If  not  now  a  friend, 
what  forbids  me  to  make  you  one  ?  Indeed,  I 
love  your  cousin,  be  it  wise  or  foolish.  I  have 
not  come  to  it,  however,  without  a  struggle.  I 
tried  travel,  study,  even  gaming,  but,  after  all, 
this  love — you  eat  of  love  as  you  do  of  garlic, 
and  everything  else  you  eat  tastes  acrid.  All 
my  cards  turned  up  Romney  Leigh.  I  came 
home  uncured,  convicted  to  myself  of  being 
hopelessly  in  love.  That's  coarse,  you  will 
say " 

"  Never  apologize  for  love,"  I  replied,  coldly. 
"  I  believe  in  love  and  God.    I  know  my  cousin ; 


Aurora  Leigh.  137 

I  do  not  know  you.  Yet  I  can  say  this :  who- 
ever loves  him  truly  should  not  excuse,  but 
purify  herself." 

"  Ah,  dear,  be  kinder  to  me,"  she  said.  "  Let 
us  be  friends." 

"  But  I  can  see  no  way  in  which  a  confidence 
like  this  can  avail  you  or  him." 

"  Well,  let  it  pass,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  yet,  if 
I  marry  him  I  save  him.     Let  that  pass  too." 

"Pass,  pass!"  I  cried.  "He  knows  what's 
worthy  of  him ;  the  choice  remains  entirely 
with  him.  What  he  chooses  cannot  be  un- 
worthy." 

"  I  would  not  ask  help  for  myself,"  she  said. 
"  I  ask  it  only  for  him.  When  he,  a  Leigh,  is 
fairly  married  to  a  girl  of  doubtful  life,  even 
you  will  perhaps  call  his  choice  unworthy." 

"  Married  !    Eomney !" 

"  Ah,  you  are  moved  at  last,"  she  said. 

"Then  there's  really  a  marriage?"  I  eagerly 
ask-ed. 

"  Eeally  and  unhappily  there  is.  Yesterday 
I  taxed  him  with  it.  '  Mr.  Leigh,'  I  said,  '  shut 
a  thing  up  and  it  makes  more  noise.  This  boil- 
ing town  is  ill  at  keeping  a  secret.  I've  known 
yours  since  last  week;  and  do  you  not  choose 
that  even  your  kin — even  Aurora  Leigh — should 
think  your  act  more  of  a  fancy  than  a  sacrifice  ?' 
He  grew  so  pale,   dear — to  the  very  lips.     I 

12* 


138  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

knew  I  had  touched  him,  '  Do  you  know  her, 
Aurora  Leigh  ?'  he  said.  '  Yes,'  I  answered.  I 
lied,  but,  truly,  we  all  know  you  by  your  books ; 
and  I  offered  to  go  straight  to  you  and  justify 
his  cause,  and  take  you  to  Saint  Margaret's 
Court  to  see  this  miracle — a  drover's  daughter, 
believe  me,  named  Marian  Earle." 

"  JSTow,"  said  I,  "  I  begin  imperfectly  to  under- 
stand your  drift.  But  how  this  plan  serves 
your  ends  I  cannot  see." 

She  knit  her  restless  forehead :  "  Then  de- 
spite that  radiant  name,  Aurora,  you  are  as 
dull  as  a  London  afternoon.  I  wanted  time, 
and  I  gained  it.  I  wanted  you,  and  I  gain  you. 
You'll  go  and  see  the  girl,  then  you'll  speak 
your  mind,  and  prove  to  Eomney  in  your  own 
brilliant  way  that  he'll  wrong  you,  wrong  all 
who  are  concerned,  by  such  an  execrable  mar- 
riage." 

"  But  you  err,"  I  said,  "  in  supposing  that  I 
have  power  to  break  the  match.  I  would  not 
do  it  to  save  Eomney's  life." 

"  You  take  it  so  ?"  And  she  rose  with  a  tone 
of  bitter  surprise  in  her  voice.  "  Farewell,  then. 
Write  your  books  in  peace."  She  touched  my 
hand  lightly  and  bent  her  head,  then  departed, 
without  looking  back,  down  the  dark  stairs. 

Two  hours  afterwards  I  stood  alone  in  Saint 
Margaret's  Court.     A  sick  child  jeered  weakly 


Aurora  Leigh.  139 

at  me  as  I  crossed  the  uneven  pavement,  while 
a  woman,  rouged  on  her  angular  cheek-bones 
and  with  dangling  locks  of  hair,  leaned  out  at 
a  window  and  cursed  me  and  some  bedridden 
creature  in-doors  by  tui'ns. 

I  pushed  back  a  little  side  door  in  spite  of  her 
menacing  voice,  and  quickly  found  my  way  to 
a  low  door  in  the  attic.  I  knocked,  and  there 
was  a  hurried  movement  within,  then  some  one 
said, — 

"  So  soon !    Can  it  be  Mr.  Leigh,  so  soon  ?" 

I  was  met  by  an  ineffable  face  upon  the 
threshold. 

"  Oh,  not  you,  not  you !"  she  said.  And  the 
dropping  of  the  voice  implied  that  if  it  were 
not  he,  it  was  not  any  one  for  her. 

I  looked  full  in  the  sweet  eyes  and  held  her 
hands  in  my  own. 

"  I  am  Eomney  Leigh's  cousin,  and  I  have 
come  now  to  see  my  other  cousin." 

Her  face  and  voice  touched  me  deeply.  "  How 
can  soft  flowers  like  this  grow  from  such 
rough  roots  ?"  I  mused,  as  I  felt  her  hands  lie 
timidly  in  mine.  She  was  not  beautiful  at  all. 
She  was  neither  white  nor  brown,  but  could 
look  either,  like  a  mist  which  is  colored  by  the 
changing  sun.  Her  hair  hung  in  rich  curls, — 
too  many  perhaps  for  so  small  a  head,  which 
seemed  to  droop  to  one  side  like  a  full-blown 


140  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

roae.  The  mouth  was  a  trifle  large,  but  the 
white  teeth  dissolved  it  to  an  infantine  smile. 
The  eyes  smiled  too,  but  a  remembrance  of 
weeping  seemed  to  mingle  with  their  gayety. 

We  talked  on,  and  she  told  me  her  brief  story. 
Her  father  had  been  a  wandering  laborer  who 
had  died  of  drink.  Her  mother  was  a  fitting 
mate  for  him,  brutal  and  coarse ;  and,  because 
nothing  profitable  could  be  done  with  a  delicate 
child  who  was  always  gazing  up  at  the  sky  or 
peering  listlessly  at  the  fields  rather  than  earn- 
ing her  way,  the  woman  treated  her  harshly,  and 
welcomed  anv  means  of  getting  rid  of  her. 

One  day,  her  mother,  who  had  been  badly 
beaten,  came  in  suddenly  and  snatched  the  comb 
from  Marian's  hair,  letting  the  curls  fall  all 
about  her  face.  ^Yhen  she  could  at  last  see 
through  the  blinding  mass,  the  girl  beheld  a  man 
outside  with  hungry-looking  eyes.  His  breath 
seemed  to  hurt  her  cheek,  he  came  so  close  to 
her.  The  mother  held  her  tight,  saying  be- 
tween her  teeth, — 

"  Why,  wench,  the  squire  speaks  to  you  ;  he's 
too  good:  he  means  to  set  you  up  and  make 
your  fortune.     Be  mannerly  now." 

Marian  turned  round  and  looked  piteously  in 
her  mother's  face,  but  there  was  no  mercy  there ; 
then,  with  a  sudden  desperation,  she  tore  her- 
self away  and  bounded  headlong  down  the  hill. 


Aurora  Leigh.  141 

They  yelled  after  her  like  hounds,  and  she  sped 
on  and  on  till  she  gained  the  uplands  and  was 
beyond  sound  of  the  voices.  She  ran  madly 
along  the  white  roads  mile  after  mile  until  she 
grew  dizzy  and  her  heart  seemed  to  bo  growing 
bigger  and  bigger.  At  last  it  burst  and  the 
light  went  out  of  her  eyes. 

She  had  fainted  and  dropped  by  the  roadside. 

As  her  senses  returned  she  found  it  was  night, 
and  she  was  on  a  creaking  and  rumbling  wagon, 
which,  in  the  morning,  landed  her  in  the  town 
where  the  good  wagoner's  business  led  him  to 
travel.  He  took  her  to  a  hospital,  where  she 
lay  sick  for  many  weeks ;  but  a  new  life  of 
kindness  and  tender  care  had  opened  to  her 
there,  and  when  at  last  she  was  able  to  be  sent 
away,  she  burst  into  tears  at  the  thought  of 
leaving. 

But  on  the  day  before  her  departure,  as  she 
sat  dumb  and  lost  among  the  other  convales- 
cents, a  visitor  who  was  being  ushered  through 
the  wards  paused  among  the  group  and  spoke 
some  soothing  words.  Marian  said  that  his  look 
was  like  a  sweet  speech,  and  his  speech  was  like 
a  song.  His  name  was  Romney  Leigh,  and  that 
was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him. 

When  it  was  her  turn  to  hear  his  comforting 
talk  and  he  asked  her  where  she  meant  to  go, 
she  burst  into  sobs. 


142  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  "Where  I  go  ?"  she  said.  "  JSTobody  ever  asked 
me  till  now.  How  can  I  tell  where  I  am  going, 
when  it  has  not  seemed  worth  while,  even  to 
God  himself,  to  think  of  me  ?" 

"  You  have  lost  your  father  and  mother  ?"  he 
asked. 

She  told  him  her  story. 

"  Poor  child !"  he  said,  with  such  pity  in  his 
voice  it  soothed  her  more  than  her  own  tears. 
And  even  now  she  could  tell  me  word  for  word 
the  generous  counsel  he  had  given  her  that 
happy  morning. 

He  sent  her  to  a  sempstress-house  in  London, 
and  they  parted  for  many  months  to  come. 

About  a  year  after  this  the  sewing-girl  who 
sat  next  to  Marian  in  the  work-room  where  she 
was  employed  fell  sick,  and  the  gossips  said  that 
she  was  dying.  Her  name  was  Lucy  Grresham, 
and  the  night  before,  on  her  way  home,  she  had 
fainted  and  been  carried  to  her  room,  and  laid 
beside  her  bedridden  grandmother. 

"  The  old  crone's  paralytic,"  said  one  of  the 
girls,  "  and  that's  why  Lucy  had  to  work  so 
hard."  Then,  seeing  tears  in  Marian's  eyes, 
"  But,  Marian  Earle,  you're  not  fool  enough  to 
cry  about  it,  are  you  ?" 

Marian  stood  up,  and,  breaking  abruptly  from 
the  circle,  left  the  place.  She  went  directly  to 
Lucy's  home,  resolved  to  nurse  her  as  long  as 


Aurora  Leigh.  143 

she  needed  help.  Day  after  day  she  sat  by 
Lucy's  poor  bed,  constant  in  her  chosen  duty. 
Lucy  sometimes  thanked  her,  and  she  was 
strangely  touched  at  hearing  herself  called  kind 
and  good, — she,  who  had  been  beaten  and  sold ! 

But  Lucy  slipped  gently  away  in  sleep  one 
night,  and  then  a  man  came  in  and  stood  by  the 
death-bed,  which  also  held  the  shrivelled  body 
of  the  old  paralytic.  The  poor  woman  feebly 
screamed  that  they  must  not  bury  her,  she  was 
not  the  corpse,  and  then  she  appealed  to  Marian 
Earle  to  show  the  gentleman  where  Lucy  lay. 

*'  Marian  Earle !"  said  a  voice  which  she  seemed 
to  know. 

It  was  the  hour  for  angels  to  hover  near,  and 
there  stood  hers.  And  yet  she  was  scarcely 
surprised  to  see  Eomney  Leigh.  He  seemed  to 
come  by  instinct  wherever  grief  was. 

He  was  not  angry  with  her  for  leaving  the 
house  where  he  had  placed  her,  and  when  he 
found  that  she  was  bent  on  nursing  the  old 
woman  he  did  not  oppose  it.  She  felt  in  his 
eyes  and  speech  a  tenderer  presence  of  the  soul 
which  understood  her  and  acquiesced. 

But  at  last  one  day  when  Marian  had  smoothed 
the  now  empty  bed  and  swept  the  floor  of  the 
coffin-dust,  as  she  stood  in  the  cold  room  with 
the  door-key  in  her  hand  prepared  to  go,  he 
spoke  to  her. 


144  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Dear  Marian,"  said  Jie,  "  God  moulded  us  all 
of  one  clay.  What  difference  does  it  make  that 
I  was  born  to  a  noble  name  and  you  came  from 
the  noble  people  ?  Wc  all  go  back  to  the  original 
clay  at  last,  and  why  should  we  wait  for  that  ?" 

She  looked  blindly  in  his  face,  and  he  held  her 
hand,  while  her  heart  beat  so  thick  and  fast  she 
could  not  gather  the  full  sense  of  his  words. 

"  You  are  my  fellow- worker,  Marian,  why  not 
be  my  wife?" 

With  a  childish  simplicity  and  earnestness 
Marian  told  me  her  story  down  to  this  point,  and 
here  she  stopped  with  no  sense  of  embarrassment 
or  affected  shame.    I  kissed  her  lips  as  she  ended. 

"  So  indeed  he  loves  you,  Marian  ?"  I  said. 

*'  Loves  me !"  She  looked  up  with  an  infant's 
wonder.  "He  loves  everything,  and  me,  of 
course,  or  he  would  not  have  asked  me  to  work 
with  him  and  be  his  wife." 

Her  words  reproved  me.  Obviously  she  had 
not  thought  about  his  love  at  all.  Women  of 
my  own  class  haggle  for  the  small  change  of 
love.  She  knew  that  she  was  crowned,  and 
asked  no  more. 

But  before  I  could  say  anything  in  reply 
Eomney  was  there  himself  I  think  he  had 
been  standing  in  the  room  while  she  spoke.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  arrested  in 
his  movements,  and  he  was  very  pale. 


Aurora  Leigh.  145 

"  You  here,  Aurora  ?"  he  said. 

«  Why,  yes,  dear  Eomney.  Lady  Waldemar 
sent  me  here  in  haste  to  find  a  cousin  of  mine 
that  is  to  be." 

"  Lady  Waldemar  is  very  good,"  he  said,  with 
measured  coldness. 

"  Here's  one,  at  least,  who  is  good,"  I  said,  as 
I  touched  Marian's  head. 

"You  accept  a  gift  from  me  at  last,  then, 
Aurora  ?  I  have  actually  pleased  you."  How 
changed  his  voice  sounded, 

"  You  cannot  please  a  woman  who  wills  not 
to  be  pleased,  and,  once,  you  vexed  me, — but 
shall  we  speak  of  that  ?  Let  it  pass  rather,  for 
now  you  please  me  when  you  please  yourself" 

He  said  nothing,  and  I  went  on : 

"  Poets,  you  know,  Eomney,  are  democrats, 
and  I  understand  and  wholly  justify  your 
choice." 

"  ISTo,  no,  no !"  he  sighed,  impatiently.  "  You 
do  not,  cannot  comprehend  my  end  or  my  mo- 
tives !  But  no  matter  now.  I  thank  you  for 
your  generous  cousinship,  and  I  accept  for  her 
all  your  favorable  thoughts." 

I  turned  and  kissed  Marian,  for  he  had  baffled 
and  chafed  me,  and  I  was  driven  to  her  for 
refuge. 

"  Good-by  for  this  time,"  I  said ;  "  and,  Eom- 
ney, pardon  me  the  word,  I  hope  you  may  be 
II.— G        k         13 


146  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

happy, — I  mean,  of  course,  in  an  esoteric  sense ; 
and  you'll  let  Marian  come  to  see  me,  and  be 
married  from  my  house,  won't  you  ?" 

"  I  take  my  wife  from  the  people,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  she  comes  as  Austria's  daughter  to  im- 
perial France,  between  her  eagles,  with  no 
shame  for  her  race,  from  St.  Margaret's  Court 
to  St.  James's,  What  we  do,  we  do  openly  with- 
out a  blush." 

He  came  after  me  down  the  stairs  and  offered 
to  escort  me  through  the  hideous  streets.  We 
had  a  strange,  melancholy  walk  in  the  drizzling 
rain,  talking  of  many  irrelevant  things  to  avoid 
the  one  topic  which  lay  closest  to  our  hearts. 

When  we  parted  at  my  own  door  his  good- 
night sounded  strangely,  like  a  parting  at  a 
death-bed,  and  I  thought  all  that  night  of  its 
ominous  sound. 

IV. 

A  MONTH  passed,  and  then  came  the  announce- 
ment of  the  marriage. 

The  day  finally  arrived,  and  I  went  to  St. 
James's  with  the  fashionable  throngs  who  had 
been  invited  and  the  ragged  mob  drawn  there 
by  curiosity.  They  clogged  the  streets  and 
oozed  into  the  church  in  a  dark,  slow  stream. 
Noble  ladies  stood  up  in  their  pews  to  see  the 
sight,  while  all  the  aisles  were  alive  with  black 
heads  that  crawled  slowly  towards  the  altar, 


Aurora  Leigh.  147 

showing  here  and  there  a  hideous  face,  or  in  the 
midst  some  squalid  mother  with  a  baby  hang- 
ing like  a  rag  at  her  neck. 

We  waited  long  beyond  the  hour  fixed  for  the 
wedding,  and  the  confusion  grew  with  the  pass- 
ing time.  The  buzz  of  light  voices  and  the 
rustle  of  rich  dresses  mingled  with  a  low  growl 
from  the  bride's  impatient  followers.  Then  a 
new  movement  swept  through  the  human  mass 
and  an  ominous  whisper  reached  us.  Some- 
thing was  wrong.  What?  The  black  crowd, 
like  an  overstrained  cord,  swayed  back  and 
forth,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Eomney's  face, 
scarce  recognizable  in  its  pallor,  where  he  stood 
on  the  altar  stair  and  tried  to  speak  to  them. 
But  he  failed  to  make  himself  heard,  and  impo- 
tently  raised  an  open  letter  which  he  held  in 
his  hand  high  above  his  head  to  make  them 
attend. 

"  My  brothers,  bear  with  me,"  he  cried.  "  I 
am  very  weak,  but  I  meant  only  good.  Per- 
haps I  was  too  proud,  and  God  has  snatched  the 
circumstance  and  changed  it  to  punishment. 
There  will  be  no  marriage !  She  leaves  me, 
disappears  ;  I  lose  her.  Yet  I  never  forced  her. 
My  friends,  you  are  dismissed.  Go  eat  and 
drink  according  to  the  programme ;  but  I  bid 
you  farewell." 

As  he  ended  there  was  unbroken  silence  in 


148  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  church.  A  man  spoke  somewhere  through 
the  hush,  and  the  spell  was  over. 

"  Look  to  it,  boys.  Don't  be  robbed  of  the 
beef  and  beer.  They're  not  honest  with  the 
poor.     They'll  try  to  cheat  us." 

Then  others  yelled  out  coarse  jokes  and  com- 
ments on  the  marriage,  and  some,  fancying  them- 
selves wronged  by  the  failure  of  Marian  to 
secure  a  noble  husband,  claimed  their  rights  in 
loud,  threatening  voices. 

Through  the  rage  aud  roar  I  could  hear  the 
broken  words  which  Eomney  flung  helplessly 
from  his  post  on  the  altar  stair  among  the  tur- 
bulent crowd.  From  end  to  end  the  church 
rocked  around  us  like  a  stormy  sea.  Men  cried 
out  "  Police !"  and  women  shrieked  for  God,  or 
dropped  and  swooned.  The  last  sight  I  saw 
was  Eomney's  terrible,  calm  face  above  the  tu- 
mult, and  the  last  sound  I  remember  were  the 
cries  of  "  Pull  him  down !"  «  Kill  him !"  Stretch- 
ing out  my  arms  like  one  in  a  dream  who  vainly 
wards  off  some  evil,  I  struggled  head-foremost 
to  reach  and  rescue  him.  Then  some  one  pulled 
me  back,  and  the  light  went  out  of  my  eyes  and 
I  knew  nothing  more. 

What  followed  was  told  me  by  Lord  Howe, 
who  carried  me  senseless  into  the  street  and 
then  returned  to  help  quell  the  tumult.  The 
police  at  last  fell  upon  the  crowd  and  silenced 


Aurora  Leigh.  149 

them.  They  slowly  eddied  out  of  the  aisles, 
and  Eomney's  wedding-day  was  over. 

The  truth  was  that  Eomney  had  received  a 
letter  delivered  by  a  ragged  child  at  the  church 
door,  as  he  waited  anxiously  for  his  bride. 

"  Noble  friend,"  it  ran,  "  be  patient  with  me. 
Do  not  think  me  vile,  who  might  to-morrow 
morning  have  been  your  wife  if  I  had  not  loved 
you  more  than  the  name.  Farewell,  Eomney, — ^ 
let  me  write  it  this  once, — my  Eomney." 

There  was  much  more  of  the  letter,  which 
told  in  a  rambling  way  some  things  which 
Eomney  had  never  known.  Marian  had  once, 
she  said,  tried  to  tell  him  how  a  certain  woman 
had  come  to  see  her,  but  he  only  stared  at  the 
floor  and  paid  no  attention,  and  she  was  put  off 
for  that  day.  Then,  afterwards,  some  one  spoke 
so  wisely  of  her  and  so  tenderly  of  him,  and 
urged  her  so  earnestly  to  keep  silence  for  his 
sake,  that  she  finally  decided  to  conceal  it. 
Lady  Waldemar,  she  said,  was  very  kind,  came 
nine  or  ten  times  to  see  her ;  and  his  cousin, 
too,  was  kindest  of  all.  She  had  pondered  over 
a  certain  thing  his  cousin  had  asked :  "  He  loves 
you,  Marian  ?"  She  had  said  it  with  a  sort  of 
mild  and  derisive  sadness,  much  as  a  mother 
might  say  to  her  baby,  "  You'll  touch  that  star, 
you  think,  little  one?"  And,  she  pathetically 
wrote,  "  I  never  touched  it!"    "  God,"  the  letter 

13* 


150  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

continued,  "  if  I  could  die  and  let  these  words 
break  off  innocent  just  here !  But  no ;  for  your 
sake,  here's  the  last :  I  could  never  be  happy  as 
your  wife.  Do  not  seek  rae  nor  vex  yourself 
with  lamentable  thoughts  over  me ;  be  sure  I'm 
well,  merry,  and  at  ease,  but  a  long  way  off. 
You'll  find  me  in  my  grave  sooner  than  else- 
where, and  that's  my  choice.  O  my  star,  my 
saint,  I  am  not  so  lost  that  I  cannot  thank  you 
for  all  the  good  you  tried  to  do  me.  My  hand 
shakes,  I  am  blind ;  I  am  poor  at  writing  even 
at  the  best,  and  yet  I've  tried  to  make  my 
g's  as  you  showed  me.  Farewell !  Say  '  poor 
Marian  now.'  " 

Eomney  searched  for  her  many  days  and 
weeks,  sifting  over  all  the  refuse  of  the  town, 
but  he  found  no  trace  of  her.  He  would  not 
hear  me  when  I  hinted  that  I  knew  a  friend  of 
his  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  breaking  the 
match.  The  lady  had  been  ill  ever  since,  the 
shock  had  been  so  severe  to  her.  Something  in 
his  tone  repressed  me.  He  went  on  to  say  that, 
putting  questions  to  Marian's  fellow-lodgers,  he 
found  she  had  received  another  visitor  beside 
Lady  Waldemar  and  myself,  a  dubious  over- 
dressed woman  who  had  dazed  the  children  and 
thrown  them  some  pence.  This  woman  had 
been  with  her  at  first  from  week  to  week,  but 
towards  the  end  she  came  daily. 


Aurora  Leigh.  151 

"  I  see  all  clearly  enough,"  he  said.  "  Such 
devils  would  pull  the  angels  out  of  heaven  if 
they  could  reach  them.  The  slave  who  falls 
with  disease  on  the  Cairo  streets  warns  the 
passengers  to  stand  otf,  but  these  blotched  souls 
are  eager  to  spread  infection." 

"  Some  natures  do  not  take  plagues,  though," 
I  broke  in  to  soothe  him.  "  I  believe,  as  I 
am  a  woman  and  understand  womanhood,  that 
Marian  Earle,  however  lured  away  and  de- 
ceived, still  keeps  pure  in  aim  and  heart." 

"Pure  in  aim?"  he  said.  "Oh,  I  grant  that, 
like  myself,  who  thought  to  shoulder  the  world 
and  carry  it  over  social  ills,  and  yet  have  ended 
by  letting  a  single  soul  slip  by  very  impotence 
straight  down  to  perdition ;  truly,  she  and  I 
have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  aims !  Poor 
child,"  he  murmured,  softly  and  reflectively,  "  it 
was  a  luckless  day  for  her  when  she  first  chanced 
on  my  philanthropy." 

"  The  best  men,  doing  their  best,"  I  said, "  know 
really  the  least  of  what  they  do.  The  most 
useful  of  men  in  the  world  are  simply  used.  It 
is  he  alone  who  wields  the  hammer  who  sees  thp 
work  advancing  from  the  first  blow.  Take  heart, 
cousin." 

'•  Ah,  if  I  could  have  taken  yours,  Aurora," 
he  said.  "  But  that's  past  now.  Sing  your  songs, 
dear,  if  it's  your  way,  but  rest  sometimes.     Re- 


152  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

fleet  that  if  art  be  the  higher  life,  you  still  need 
the  lower  life  to  stand  on  in  order  to  reach  up 
to  that  higher.  Eemember,  for  art's  sake,  hold 
your  life  dear." 

Then  we  parted.  I  respected  him  and  under- 
stood the  nobility  of  his  sacrifices ;  but  he  sup- 
posed me  too  small  a  thing  to  comprehend  him. 
"  Sing,"  he  seemed  to  say, — "  sing,  poor  insect,  if 
that's  your  way,  and  still  tease  me  with  your 
humming." 

Y. 

It  had  been  nearly  two  years  since  I  saw 
Homney  Leigh.  I  heard  he  was  busy  with 
many  good  works,  had  parted  his  estate  into 
almshouses  and  gave  lavishly  of  his  bounty, 
and  yet  for  two  years  I  had  not  spoken  with 
him. 

It  always  makes  me  sad  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  and  I  felt  even  more  sad  than  usual  the 
night  I  went  to  Lord  Howe's.  He  had  a  group 
of  celebrities  there  amid  the  flaring  lights ;  and 
his  wife  and  they  were  very  gracious  to  me. 
Lady  Waldemar  was  there,  and  looked  lovely 
with  her  twisted  bronze  tresses  and  her  white 
shoulders.  If  the  heart  within  were  only  half 
as  white  it  would  be  well  for  her;  but  if  it 
were,  perhaps  the  breast  would  have  been 
covered  closer. 


157 

Aurora  Leigh.  ^5^ 

I  overheard  two  men  making  comment  on 
her  beauty.  One  looked  like  a  German  student, 
and  the  other  was  called  Sir  Blaise  Delorme. 

"  Look  that  way,  Sir  Blaise,"  said  the  younger 
man  ;  "  to  the  left,  in  red.  She's  Lady  Waldemar 
whom  Eomney  Leigh  is  soon  to  marry.  You 
know  him  ?     One  of  our  ablest  men." 

"  Is  Leigh  our  ablest  man,  then  ?"  asked  Sir 
Blaise,  in  mock  surprise.  "He's  the  one  who 
was  jilted  by  a  pretty  maid  he  adopted  from 
the  people.  He  seems  now  to  have  plucked  a 
flower  from  the  other  side  of  the  social  hedge." 

"A  flower!  a  flower!"  exclaimed  the  German 
student,  with  his  eyes  bent  full  upon  her.  He 
was  twenty,  certainly. 

Sir  Blaise  resumed,  with  insinuating  arro- 
gance, "  My  young  friend,  I  doubt  your  ablest 
man's  power  to  get  the  least  help  for  his  schemes 
from  a  flowery  creature  like  that." 

"  Beautiful !"  the  rapt  student  murmured.  "  See 
how  she  stirs,  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  flower 
just  touched  by  the  breath  of  our  talk." 

Hereupon  Grimwald,  the  bilious  writer  for 
the  "  Eenovator,"  turned  from  a  book  of  auto- 
graphs with  his  low  carnivorous  laugh. 

"A  flower,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  She  neither 
sews  nor  spins,  and  takes  no  thought  of  her 
garments — falling  off"." 

The  student  and  Sir  Blaise  flinched,  and  both 


]  **  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

drew  back  their  chairs  and  pursued  their  talk 
without  making  a  reply. 

Lord  Howe  came  up  and  overheard  them. 

"  What !  talking  poetry  so  near  the  unfavoring 
Muse,"  he  said,  glancing  gayly  at  me.  "  I've 
watched  you  half  an  hour.  Miss  Leigh,  just  as 
I've  sometimes  watched  the  Pallas  in  the  Vati- 
can. You  remember  the  face.  Sir  Blaise  ?  In- 
tensely calm  and  sad,  as  if  wisdom  cut  it  off 
from  fellowship." 

Then  as  he  came  nearer  to  me,  "  I  saw  you 
across  the  room,  and  stayed  to  keep  off  the  lion- 
hunters  who  were  threatening  you."  He  went 
on  playfully  to  describe  their  terrors,  until  I 
smiled  at  his  drollery. 

"Ah,  ah,  you  smile  at  last,"  said  he.  "But  I 
swore  to  bring  my  transatlantic  girl  to  you  for 
a  kiss, — not  now,  but  some  other  day.  We'll 
call  it  perjury ;  I'll  give  her  up." 

"  No ;   bring  her,"  I  said. 

"You  make  it  hard  to  touch  such  goodness 
with  a  grimy  palm.  I  meant  to  tease  you,  and 
so  steel  myself  for  telling  you  something  that 
would  tease  you  still  more." 

"  Eomney  ?"  said  I. 

"  No,  no,  nothing  worse  of  Eomney  than  what 
is  already  buzzed  about.  What  I  mean  refers  to 
you." 

"Eeferstome?" 


157 

Aurora  Leigh.  155 

"  Me !"  he  echoed.  "  You  sound  it  like  a  stone 
one  drops  down  a  dry  well,  forgetful  of  the  toad 
at  the  bottom.  Briefly,  though,  you  know  Eg- 
linton,  John  Eglinton  of  Eglinton  in  Kent  ?" 

"  Is  he  the  toad  ?  He's,  rather,  like  a  snail, 
known  by  the  house  on  his  back.  Divide  them 
and  you  kill  the  man." 

He  answered,  gravely,  "A  reputable  man, 
an  excellent  landlord  of  the  old  stamp,  kind 
to  the  aged  poor  who  pick  sticks  at  his  hedge- 
side." 

"  Oh,  tender-hearted  landlord !  may  I  take  my 
long  lease  with  him  when  the  time  arrives  for 
gathering  winter  fagots !" 

"  He  likes  art,  buys  books  and  pictures — of  a 
certain  kind ;  he's  a  good  son " 

"  To  an  obedient  mother,"  I  laughed. 

"  Be  less  bitter,  Miss  Leigh,"  he  said,  "  for,  in- 
deed, I  have  a  letter  which  he  so  urged  me  to 
bring  you  I  could  not  help  yielding.  He  insists 
in  it  that  a  new  love  may  gain  much  by  passing 
through  the  hands  of  an  old  friendship." 

"  Love  ?  My  lord,  I  am  past  loving.  I  know 
only  the  rhyme  for  love, — and  that's  not  love. 
Take  your  letter  back." 

"  But  you'll  read  it  first  ?"  he  urged. 

"  I  do  not  care  to  read  it ;  it  is  stereotyped. 
The  same  thing  he  wrote  to — anybody — Anne 
Blythe,  the  actress." 


156  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  began,  but  I  broke  in 
hastily, — 

"  You  mean  me  or  your  friend  of  Eglinton  ?" 
"  I  mean  you,— you,"  he  answered,  with  some 
spirit.  "  A  hajjpy  life  involves  prudent  compro- 
mise. In  this  bad,  twisted,  topsy-turvy  world  of 
ours  in  England,  where  ledger-strokes  and  sword- 
strokes  count  for  more  than  soul-strokes,  it  is 
hard  to  stand  up  for  art.  To  be  plain,  my  dear 
friend,  j'ou're  poor  except  in  what  you  so  richly 
give  us ;  and  for  art's  sake,  if  for  nothing  else, 
I  pray  you  to  reflect." 

I  answered  slowly,  like  a  wayfaring  man  who 
finds  himself  too  far  from  home  at  night  and 
bears  a  steadfast  face  to  the  wind. 

"  Is  art  a  less  thing  than  virtue,  that  artists 
must  cater  to  theu'  ease  and  never  think  of  the 
larger  issues  beyond  ?  I  will  not  bate  one  artist- 
dream  on  straw  or  down,  my  lord,  nor  cease  to 
love  high  no  matter  how  low  I  live." 

So  speaking,  and  with  less  anger  than  sorrow 
in  my  voice,  I  rose  to  go,  while  he,  thrown  back 
upon  the  noble  shame  of  such  natures,  mur- 
mured the  right  words  after  having  said  the 
wrong  ones. 

As  we  passed  on.  Lord  Howe  insisting  that 
his  friendly  arm  should  oar  me  across  the  stream 
eddying  through  the  rooms,  we  came  upon  Lady 
"VValdemar. 


Aurora  Leigh.  157 

"  Miss  Leigh,"  she  said,  with  a  cold,  bright 
smile,  "  I've  tried  to  reach  you  all  the  evening. 
I've  a  world  to  tell  you  about  your  cousin's 
place  in  Shropshire,  where  I've  been  to  see  his 
work — our  work, — you  heard  that  I  went  ?  He 
looks  well  now ;  he  has  quite  got  over  his  un- 
fortunate   Ah,  I  know  it  moved  you,  tender- 
heart  !  As  for  Eomney,  it  is  sure  he  never  loved 
her, — never.  By  the  way,  you  have  not  heard 
of  her  P  Quite  out  of  sight  and  lost  in  every 
sense  ?" 

She  might  have  gone  on  talking  half  an  hour. 
I  put  in  "  Yes"  or  "  No"  every  now  and  then, 
till  Lord  Howe  broke  in : 

"  What  penance  for  the  wretch  who  inter- 
rupts the  talk  of  charming  women  ?  I  must 
brave  it,  anyhow.  Pardon,  Lady  Waldemar, 
Miss  Leigh  is  tired  and  unwell,  and  I've  promised 
she  should  say  no  harder  word  this  evening  than 
'  Grood-night.'  Her  face  speaks  the  rest  for 
her." 

Then  we  went,  and  I  breathed  free  and  un- 
restrained once  more  at  home ;  but  the  news  I 
had  heard  had  confirmed  my  lingering  resolu- 
tion to  go  to  Italy.  Having  decided  to  sell 
some  of  the  precious  books  inherited  from  my 
fjxther,  and  leaving  the  disposal  of  them  to  my 
good  Carrington  in  London,  I  set  out  without 
delay  for  Paris,  where  I  intended  to  wait  till  he 

14 


158  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

should  send  me  the  proceeds  of  them  as  "vvell  as 
of  my  new  book,  which  he  had  undertaken  to 
dispose  of  to  a  publisher. 

VI. 

In  Paris,  one  night,  finding  I  could  not  sleep, 
I  got  up  and  went  out  in  the  early  morning  to 
wander  through  the  Flower  Market,  As  I 
l^aced  absently  back  and  forth,  observing  every- 
thing with  an  artist's  eye,  which  always  keeps 
on  the  shady  side  of  the  things  it  loves,  I  saw 
the  crowd  of  young,  vivacious,  and  black-braided 
heads  dipping  among  the  bouquets,  and  cheapen- 
ing this  and  that  in  a  cheerful  twitter  of  speech. 
But  as  I  walked  on,  my  heart  suddenly  leaped 
in  me,  startled  by  a  voice  I  had  heard  long 
before.  Slowly  and  faintly,  with  long  intervals 
between  the  words,  it  inquired  in  a  stranger's 
French, — 

"  Would  this  be  much,  this  branch  of  flower- 
ing mountain-gorse  ?" 

"  So  much  ?"  she  said,  when  the  price  was 
given.     "  Too  much  for  me,  then." 

She  turned  round  so  near  me  that  I  felt 
the  sigh.     I  looked,  and  we  were  face  to  face. 

"  Marian  !  Marian !"  I  cried,  "  have  I  found 
you  ?  Shall  I  let  you  go  ?"  I  held  her  slight 
wrists  in  mine.  "Ah,  Marian,  can  I  let  you 
go?" 


Aurora  Leigh.  159 

She  fluttered  back  from  me  like  a  flower  in  a 
sudden  wind. 

"Let  me  pass!"  she  said. 

"  I  will  not !"  I  replied.  "  I  lost  my  sister 
Marian  long  ago,  and  sought  her  in  my  walks 
and  in  my  prayers,  and  now  I  find  her.  Can  I 
hurt  you,  dear  ?  Then  why  distrust  me  ?  Don't 
tremble  so.  Come  to  my  home  with  me,  where 
we  can  talk  and  live  with  no  one  to  vex  us." 

She  shook  her  head :  "  You  are  as  good  as 
heaven  itself, — as  good  as  one  I  knew  before, — 
but,  farewell." 

I  loosed  her  hands  :  "  In  Ms  name,  no  fare- 
well!" She  stood  as  if  I  still  held  her.  "For 
his  sake, — Eomney's !  By  the  good  he  meant, 
always,  by  the  love  he  pressed  for  once,  and  by 
the  grief  and  reproach  that  came  instead " 

"He!  Who  grieved  him?"  she  said,  with  an 
eager,  questioning  look.  "  Who  had  the  heart 
to  do  it?  What  reproach  could  touch  him? 
Be  merciful !     Speak  quickly !" 

"  Come,  then."    I  spoke  with  authority. 

She  said  not  a  word,  but  in  a  gentle  and 
humbled  way  turned  and  went  with  me. 

We  walked  a  mile  or  more,  and  then  she 
stopped  and  asked  if  it  was  much  farther. 

"  You  are  ill  or  tired  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  there's  one  at  home  who  has 
need  of  me  by  this  time ;  I  must  not  let  him  wait." 


160  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  In  that  case  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

She  led  the  way,  and  at  last  we  stopped  by  a 
tall  house  in  the  ragged  suburbs.  I  followed 
her  up-stairs,  and,  on  the  landing,  heard  a 
woman  come  out  and  scold  her  for  her  delay. 
She  just  murmured  a  word  of  excuse,  and  shut 
out  the  rest  with  the  chamber  door. 

It  was  a  small  square  room,  containing  only 
two  stools  and  a  bed,  and  we  were  there  alone. 
Marian  threw  oif  her  bonnet  and  went  to  the 
bed,  drawing  a  shawl  softly  away,  and  there  on 
his  back  lay  a  young  baby,  warm  with  life  to 
the  very  bottom  of  his  dimples,  to  the  ends  of 
his  lovely  tumbled  curls. 

She  leaned  above  him  entirely  forgetful  of 
herself,  and  in  her  transport  concentrating  her 
whole  passionate  face,  mouth,  forehead,  eyes, 
into  one  gaze.  Then  slowly,  as  he  smiled,  she 
smiled  also,  unaware  that  she  did  it,  and  drew 
a  faint  red  to  her  countenance,  as  if  it  were  a 
reflection  of  his. 

"  How  beautiful !"  she  said. 

"Yes,  the  child  is  well  enough,"  I  answered; 
"  and  if  the  mother's  palms  are  clean,  they 
should  be  proud  to  clasp  such  a  child ;  but  if 
not,  I  had  rather  lay  my  hands,  were  I  she,  on 
God's  brazen  altar-bars,  red-hot  with  the  fires 
of  sacrifice,  than  touch  those  curls." 

She  plunged  her  fingers  into  his  clustering 


Aurora  Leigh.  161 

locks  as  if  she  would  not  be  afraid  of  fire,  and 
then  with  steady  utterance  said, — 

"  My  lamb  !  my  lamb !  although  through  such 
as  you  the  unclean  once  got  approach  to  God, 
now  you  cannot,  even  with  men,  find  enough 
grace  for  gentle  words." 

"  But  if  a  woman,"  I  said,  "  is  not  bettered  by 
being  a  mother,  is  not  quickened  towards  truth 
and  good,  then  she  is  no  mother,  although  she 
dampens  her  baby's  cheeks  with  kisses.  We 
can  kill  roses  so." 

"Kill!"  she  said,  turning  a  wild  face  from 
side  to  side.  "What  have  you  in  your  souls 
against  me,  all  of  you?  Do  you  think  I  am 
wicked?  God  knows  me,  and  trusts  me  with 
the  child !" 

"  Not  wicked,"  I  said,  "  but  forgetful  of  a 
wrong  5^ou  have  done,  because  you  have  been 
rewarded  thus ;  which  is  a  wrong  beyond  tlie 
first  one,  Marian.  When  you  left  the  pure 
place  and  noble  heart  to  take  the  hand  of  a 
seducer " 

"Whose   hand?     I   took   the   hand   of " 


She  sprang  up  erect  and  lifted  the  child  at  arm's- 
length  above  her.  "  By  him,  by  his  head  and 
curls  and  blue  eyes,  which  no  woman  born  would 
dare  to  perjure  herself  on,  I  swear  a  mother's 
oath,  that  if  I  left  that  heart  to  lighten  it,  no 
cleaner  maid  than  I  ever  took  step  to  a"  sadder 


162  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

end !  Do  wolves  seduce  a  wandering  fawn  here 
in  France  ?  So  with  me ;  I  was  not  seduced, 
but  simply  murdered." 

She  sank  down  and  sat  upon  the  bedside,  and 
I,  utterly  broken  and  convicted,  clung  about  her 
waist  with  a  woman's  passion,  and  kissed  her 
hair  and  eyes. 

"I  have  been  wrong,  sweet  Marian,  sweet, 
holy  Marian,"  I  said.  "  And  now  I'll  use  your 
oath :  B}^  the  child,  I  swear  his  mother  shall  be 
innocent  before  my  conscience.  Innocent,  my 
sister!  Pardon  me,  pardon  me,  and  smile  a 
little,  Marian !" 

The  poor  lips  just  motioned  for  a  smile  and  let 
it  go.  She  spoke  a  few  sad  words  about  her- 
self, and  then  asked  me,  half  pleadingly,  as  if 
she  had  no  right  to  know,  to  tell  her  about 
Eomney.  I  took  her  head  on  my  arm  and 
stroked  her  cheeks,  and  told  her  all  I  could 
about  him ;  how  he  had  sought  her  and  failed 
everywhere,  and,  broken-hearted,  had  with- 
drawn from  the  world.     There  I  stopped. 

"And  now,  how  is  it  with  him  now?"  she 
said,  beseechingly. 

I  felt  some  shame  that  his  grief  had  been 
so  readily  healed,  and  spoke  with  guarded 
words. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I  had  supposed 
that  excluding  me  would  bring  in  some  one  wor- 


Aurora  Leigh.  163 

thier ;  and  long  before  this,  Lady  Waldemar,  he 
loved  80 " 

"Loved!"  I  started.  "Loved  her  so!  ISTow 
tell  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  ;  but  since  we  are  taking  oaths, 
you  will  promise  first  that  he  in  England  shall 
never  know?" 

I  assented,  and  she  went  on. 

"  I  had  loved  on  my  knees,"  she  said,  "  as 
others  are  accustomed  to  pray.  I  felt  I  was 
his  for  any  of  his  uses,  not  my  own  at  all.  At 
first  I  did  not  question  whether  he  was  happy 
or  if  he  loved  me;  I  loved  him  so  dearly  I 
took  it  all  for  granted.  But  it  broke  on  my 
slow  senses  that  I  might  be  out  of  place  in 
the  Eden  I  pictured  to  myself,  and  I  began  to 
see  that  I  might  bring  ruin  on  the  man  I  loved 
by  loving  him.  "Whose  fault  was  it  I  should 
have  such  thoughts?  Why,  no  one's.  The 
light  comes,  and  we  are  permitted  to  see.  If 
I  saw  at  last,  the  sense  was  in  me,  or  else  Lady 
Waldemar  had  spoken  in  vain." 

"  Oh,  my  prophet  heart !"  I  cried  aloud.  "  Then 
Lady  Waldemar  did  speak  ?" 

"  Did  she  speak,"  Marian  mused,  softly,  "  or 
did  she  only  suggest  it  ?  At  least  one  thing's 
certain  :  from  the  day  the  gracious  lady  paid 
me  the  first  visit  I  began  to  see  things  dif- 
ferently.   She  came  much  oftener  than  he  knew, 


164  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  she  bade  me  not  to  tell  him  she  had  been 
there,  because  she  liked  to  love  me  even  better 
than  he  could  know.  She  was  so  kind.  Once 
I  broke  out  in  tears,  and  asked  her  to  give  me 
counsel ;  had  I  erred  in  being  too  happy,  and 
would  she  set  me  straight?  She  told  me  the 
truths  I  asked  for.  Eomney  could  never  love 
me  even  if  he  would, — that  is,  in  the  way  men 
ought  to  love.  He  was  set  on  wedding  my 
class  and  acting  out  an  opinion,  and  once  mar- 
ried, so  just  a  man  could  not  help  but  make  life 
for  me  as  smooth  as  a  marriage-ring ;  but  how 
about  him  ?  She  hesitated.  It  was  hard  for  her 
to  say  the  truth.  It  was  plain,  though,  a  man 
like  Eomney  required  a  wife  more  on  his  own 
level.  You  take  a  pink  and  water  it  carefully 
and  dig  about  its  roots,  but  you  can  never  change 
it  to  a  heliotrope ;  the  kind  remains.  Then, 
too,  the  harder  truth  :  the  tender  heart  which 
made  him  kind  to  the  lower  classes  would  be 
sensitive  to  the  criticism  of  the  higher.  She 
made  it  very  clear."  Marian  slowly  rocked  the 
baby,  who  was  nearly  asleep.  "  And  I  saw  the 
whole  thing  plainly.  Indeed,  she  told  me,  too, 
that  she  knew  that  Eomney  had  once  loved  her, 
and  she  loved  him,  she  might  say,  now  the 
thing  was  forever  over,  but  that,  of  course,  he 
had  never  guessed  it ;  and  yet,  though  I  stood 
between  them,  she  said  she  loved  me  truly." 


Aurora  Leigh.  165 

Did  I  laugh  or  curse  ?  I  sat  there  in  silence 
hearing  all  double,  Marian's  tale  and  Romney's 
marriage-vow :  "  I'll  keep  to  thee,"  which  of 
course  meant  that  woman-serpent. 

"  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  more,"  said  Marian, 
"  but  I  heeded  less  because  I  suffered  so.  The 
generous  lady  tried  to  keep  me  from  my  resolu- 
tion to  leave  Eomney,  and  struggled  hard  to 
make  my  way  clear  to  stay." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  sliding  the  ring  on  that  woman's 
finger  now,"  I  thought  to  myself  as  she  spoke. 

"  But  she  failed  to  convince  me,"  Marian  con- 
tinued ;  "  and  finding  her  willing  to  help  me,  I 
thought  I  could  breathe  freer  away  from  Eng- 
land. She  promised  to  place  me  under  the  pro- 
tection of  a  woman  who  had  once  been  her 
waiting-maid  and  who  was  about  to  sail  for 
Australia,  and  so  from  day  to  day  the  woman 
came  to  visit  me." 

Suddenly  Marian  stopped  speaking  ancl  sat 
erect,  staring  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost. 

"  Does  God  make  all  sorts  of  creatures,  do 
you  really  think  ?"  she  said.  "  It  made  me 
tremble  if  that  woman  touched  my  hand,  I 
never  liked  her  voice,  and  when  she  said  a  fon- 
dling word  I  shrank  back  from  her.  At  last  I 
spoke  to  Lady  Waldemar  and  asked  her  if  such 
a  woman  could  be  good  to  trust.  She  stroked 
my  cheek  and  laughed.    'Foolish  girl,'  she  said, 


166  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

'  your  wits  are  wool-gathering ;  leave  it  all  to 
me.'  "Well,  the  rest  is  short.  I  was  obedient 
and  wrote  the  letter  to  him,  and  then  the  woman 
took  me  off  so  dull  and  blind,  not  seeing  by 
what  road  I  went,  and  led  me  aboard  a  ship 
which  might  be  bound  for  Sydney  or  France, 
I  did  not  care  which.  The  sea-sickness,  the 
foreign  shore;  the  shameful  house,  the  night — 
there  was  no  need  to  bring  the  drugged  cup, 
and  yet  they  brought  it.  Then  at  last  I  woke 
up  as  if  I  were  in  the  grave.  I  was  mad,  and 
they  feared  my  eyes  and  let  me  wander  where  I 
pleased  out  into  the  open  country.  The  charita- 
ble peasants  gave  me  food  and  twice  tied  a  holy 
image  about  my  neck.  How  heavy  it  seemed ! 
I  threw  it  in  a  ditch  because  it  hindered  my 
breathing;  and  the  weeks  passed  on  while  I 
lived  my  old  tramp-life  over  again.  And  then 
I  sat  one  evening  b}^  the  roadside,  I,  Marian 
Earle,  myself,  alone,  undone,  facing  a  sunset 
across  the  flats  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  time." 

VII. 

Marian  told  me  her  whole  sad  story  down  to 
the  day  on  which  she  and  I  sat  in  her  httle  attic 
room,  and  when  she  had  finished,  my  heart  and 
soul  were  with  her  against  the  world  and  all  its 
conventions. 

"  Come   with    me,   sweetest   sister,"  I    said. 


Aurora  Leigh.  167 

"  Henceforward  you  and  I  will  stay  together, 
and  the  boy  will  not  miss  a  father,  since  he  will 
have  two  mothers.  I  mean  to  go  to  the  south, 
to  my  home  in  Tuscany,  and  there  you  shall  go 
also." 

She  looked  me  in  the  face,  but  made  no  answer, 
nor  did  she  thank  me  at  all ;  only  took  up  the 
sleeping  child  and  held  it  out  for  me  to  kiss,  as 
if  to  pay  me  richly  and  show  that  she  trusted 
me. 

Then  we  came  to  my  lodging,  and  I  placed 
the  child  and  mother  in  the  little  room,  wheres 
I  could  hear  them  breathing  in  their  sleep.  The 
next  day  we  were  off  for  Italy. 

I  thought  much  about  writing  to  Eomney  of 
the  revelations  made  to  me  by  Marian,  but  I 
feared  to  disturb  his  peace  if  he  really  loved 
Lady  Waldemar.  Suppose,  moreover,  my  letter 
should  arrive  too  late  ?  Would  it  be  generous 
to  pain  the  husband  by  exposing  the  vileness. 
of  the  wife  ?  No,  I  decided  to  keep  her  secret. 
Why  agonize  the  man  I  loved — the  friend  I 
loved — by  such  news?  It  is  strange  how  I 
listened  as  Marian  told  her  story;  not  to  her, 
but  to  a  voice  I  had  heard  years  ago  among  the 
garden  trees.  "  Be  my  wife,  Aurora,"  it  had 
said  to  me,  and  I  thought.  Ah,  if  I  had  been 
the  kind  of  a  woman  who  could  save  a  man 
through  love,  I  might  have  saved  Eomney  and 


168  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

perhaps  made  a  nobler  poem  than  all  those  I've 
failed  in  since. 

Well,  how  one  weeps  when  one's  over-weary ! 
If  a  witness  had  been  by  he'd  have  said  I  loved 
my  cousin,  and  yet, — who  knows  ?  But  I  put 
away  the  weakness  before  long  and  wrote  some 
plain  words  to  Lord  Howe  in  England.  I  told 
him  that  Marian  was  found,  and  revealed  to 
him  Lady  Waldemar's  part  in  her  flight, 
which  he  was  to  conceal  from  Eomney  unless 
the  wedding  had  not  yet  taken  place. 

Then  I  wrote  to  Lady  Waldemar,  and  poured 
out  all  the  bitterness  of  my  loathing ;  told  her 
all,  in  bold  and  unhesitating  words ;  but  pledged 
myself  to  keep  her  secret  to  save  him,  solely  to 
save  Am,  from  distress. 

The  next  day  we  took  train  for  Italy  and  fled 
southward  amid  the  roar  of  steam,  through 
which,  to  me  at  least,  came  constantly  an  echo 
of  Eomney's  far-away  wedding-bells. 

In  Florence,  I  found  a  house  on  the  hill  of 
Bellosguardo,  which  overlooked  the  city  lying 
below  in  the  valley.  Many  weeks  passed  quietly 
there,  but  no  word  came  from  England,  until  at 
last,  one  day,  I  received  a  letter  from  Yincent 
Carrington.  He  upbraided  me  for  not  acknowl- 
edging the  receipt  of  his  remittance,  and  told 
me  among  other  news  that  he  meant  to  marry 
my  old  friend  Kate  Ward.     He  then  spoke  of 


Aurora  Leigh.  169 

my  cousin  Eomney.  He  had  been  taken  with 
a  fever  lately,  and  Lady  "VYaldemar  had  tended 
him  with  the  care  and  faithfulness  of  a  house- 
hold nurse.  He  said  I  was  right  about  Lord 
Howe ;  he  was  a  trump,  and  yet  with  cards  like 
him  in  his  hand  Leigh  could  lose  as  he  did ! 

The  noonday  seemed  unusually  stifling  as  I 
read.  It  was  scorching  in  my  room  even  with 
the  sun  shut  out.  The  closed  persiani  threw 
long  shadows  on  the  floor  and  across  the  couch 
where  I  sat.  The  lines  of  the  letter  seemed 
blurred  as  I  read. 

"Well,  he's  married,  that's  clear,"  I  mused, 
and  threw  open  the  blinds  to  let  in  some  air ; 
but  the  insufferable  humming  of  the  cicale 
grated  on  my  senses  and  the  sun  seemed  to 
blister  my  face.  I  brooded  long  over  all  that 
had  happened  in  so  brief  a  time,  and  through  all 
dominating  and  coloring  it,  was  the  thought  of 
Eomney's  marriage.  The  lady  had  nursed  him 
when  he  was  ill,  mixed  his  drinks  and  tenderly 
watched  him,  and  why  should  he  not  marry 
her?  And  yet  the  recent  revelations  I  had 
heard,  my  knowledge  of  the  woman,  and  my 
cousinly  love  for  Eomney, — all  these  feelings 
made  it  a  pain  to  me,  a  haunting  bitterness. 

But  the  days  went  by,  and  gradually  I  took 
up  the  old  Tuscan  life,  shorn  though  it  was  of 
the  early  halo  of  beauty.    It  seemed  to  me  that 
H  15 


170  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

my  new  existence  in  the  familiar  land  was  like 
a  book  long  ago  dropped  in  the  grass  after 
reading  it  with  some  loving  friend,  and  found  in 
the  autumn  when  the  grass  was  dead  and  the 
friend  gone.  I  lived  tenderly  and  mournfully 
among  the  shadows  of  memory,  seeing  again 
the  familiar  creatures  and  flowers,  but  seeing 
them  farther  off  and  no  longer  mine.  There 
was  a  gulf  between  us  which  I  could  not  explain 
and  could  not  cross.  The  birds  were  there,  but 
I  could  no  longer  pair  with  them,  and  the  sun 
seemed  to  forbid  the  dew  from  falling  as  I  once 
knew  it. 

I  rode  out  to  our  little  house  on  the  mountain- 
side, half  expecting,  somehow,  to  find  my  father 
still  there ;  but  all  was  changed,  and  I  abruptly 
turned  back.  That  was  disappointment  enough. 
I  did  not  dare  to  visit  my  father's  and  mother's 
graves.  I  wished  rather  to  think  them  visiting 
my  grave — my  life  grave — there  on  the  Floren- 
tine hills.  Old  Assunta  was  dead,  too,  and  the 
land  seemed  to  belong  to  the  past.  I,  perhaps, 
was  of  the  past  also,  only  not  in  heaven  like  the 
rest. 

One  evening  as  I  sat  alone  on  the  terrace 
around  my  tower,  holding  a  book  open  on  my 
knees,  but  only  pretending  to  read.  I  was  startled 
by  Marian's  laugh  in  the  garden  below.  It 
sounded  strangely,  like  the  laugh  of  a  sad  and 


Aurora  Leigh.  171 

innocent  soul  that  was  frightened  by  its  own 
gayety.  She  looked  up  in  sudden  shame  to  have 
me  hear  her,  and  I  dropped  my  eyes  quickly  on 
my  book.  It  was  Boccaccio's  tale  of  the  wooer 
who  gave  the  sole  thing  that  loved  him  as  a 
sacrifice  for  love.  Some  of  us  do  the  same 
thing  still,  and  never  laugh  again ;  but  Marian 
had  the  right  to  laugh,  because  God  himself  and 
a  little  child  were  her  partisans. 

The  night  was  approaching,  and  gradually  the 
purple  shadows  had  filled  up  the  whole  valley 
and  covered  the  darkened  city.  The  duomo 
bell  struck  ten,  and  a  score  of  churches  made 
answer.  Some  gas-lights  trembled  along  the 
streets  and  in  the  squares.  The  outline  of  the 
Pitti  palace  was  drawn  in  fire,  and  down  past 
the  quays,  in  the  Maria  Novella  Place,  where 
the  mystic  obelisks  rise,  was?  Buonarroti's  Bride, 
that  looks  out  from  her  dial  eyes  vainly  seeking 
for  his  rich  soul.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  plunged  into 
the  midst  of  it  all  from  my  hill-side  perch,  it  lay 
so  clearly  below  me.  Then,  like  one  enthroned 
below  the  water,  there  stood  my  sea-king ! 

I  felt  rather  than  saw  him.  I  rose  up  and 
sat  down  again,  struggling  for  self-possession, 
I  would  have  died  for  him,  yet  would  not  bate 
an  inch  of  my  full  prerogative. 

"You,  Eomney!"  I  said.  " Lady  "Waldemar 
is  here  ?" 


172  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  I  have  her  letter ;  you  shall  read  it  pres- 
ently," he  replied,  in  a  voice  unlike  his  own.  "  I 
y  must  first  be  heard  a  little.  I  have  travelled 
far  and  waited  so  long  for  that." 

I  could  not  tell  whether  he  touched  my  hand 
or  only  my  sleeve.  I  trembled  so  much  that  I 
knew  he  must  have  touched  me. 

"Will  you  sit  down?"  I  said,  motioning  to  a 
chair ;  but  he  sank  slowly  down  on  the  couch 
beside  me  instead. 

"  This  is  a  great  surprise.  Cousin  Eomney,"  I 
said;  "but  everything  is  a  wonder  on  these 
summer  nights."  And  I  motioned  to  the  stars 
overhead. 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  ?"  he  said,  softly. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Vincent  Carrington  sent  me 
the  news;  but  I  did  not  suppose  you  would 
leave  the  work  in  England  even  for  such  a 
reason  ;  though  of  course  you'll  make  the  holi- 
day a  work-day  as  well, — turn  it  to  use  for  the 
Tuscan  poor  ?" 

"  Carrington  sent  you  the  news?"  he  echoed. 
"  And  did  he  give  his  personal  news  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  whole  world  over  there  seems  to 
be  crumbling  into  marriage.  I  think  he  has 
chosen  very  wisely." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  and  is  it  possible  at  last  ?" 
he  said.  Then,  as  if  musing  to  himself,  he 
added :  "  Well,  the  knowledge  could  scarcely  have 


Aurora  Leigh.  173 

changed  the  case  for  me,  and  what  has  happened 
is  surely  best  for  her." 

"What,"  I  thought,  "he  loves  Kate  Ward 
now,  because  he  is  married  to  Lady  Waldemar!" 
Then  I  said,  quietly, — 

"I  did  not  think  you  knew  Kate  Ward, 
Cousin  Romney." 

"  I  never  did,"  he  said.  "  It  is  enough  that 
Yincent  did,  and  chose  to  marry  her."  Then 
turning  to  me  abruptly :  "  You  did  not  get  a 
letter  from  Lord  Howe,  a  month  back,  Aurora  ?" 

"  IS'o !"  I  said,  in  some  surprise. 

*'  I  felt  it  was  so,"  he  replied,  "  and  yet  it  is 
certainly  strange.  Did  Sir  Blaise  Delorme  pass 
through  Florence  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  saw  him  in  Our  Lady's  Church ; 
just  a  glimpse ;  he  did  not  see  me.  But  why 
did  Lord  Howe  prefer  him  to  the  post  ?" 

"  Well,  there  were  facts  to  tell.  Howe  sup- 
posed— but  no  matter.  You  hoard  the  news 
from  Carrington,  yet  you  would  have  been  less 
startled  to  see  me,  Aurora,  if  you  had  read  the 
letter." 

"  Dear  Eomney,"  I  began,  "  it  did  not  use  to 
be  necessary  for  you  to  have  precoursers  to 
spread  carpets  before  you  when  you  came.  Yet 
I'm  sorry  to  lose  so  famous  a  letter.  Doubtless 
I've  missed  a  deal  of  London  gossip  by  the 
misfortune,  for  Lord  Howe  writes  charmingly." 

15* 


174  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

He  made  no  direct  reply,  only  said,  abruptly 
"  Marian's  well  ?" 

I  bowed  my  head.  It  was  hard  to  speak  of 
her  to  Lady  Waldemar's  husband.  How  much 
did  he  really  know  ?  He  seemed  not  to  take 
the  hint,  however,  but  repeated, — 

"  Marian,  is  she  well  ?" 

"  She's  well,"  I  said,  for  she  was  there  in  sight 
but  an  hour  back,  though  the  night  had  now 
brought  her  in-doors,  where  I  could  hear  her  in 
the  upper  room  singing  the  child  to  sleep. 

"  Here  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  here,"  said  I. 

He  stopped  and  sighed :  "  Well,  we  must  drop 
that  for  the  time.  I  have  another  thing  to 
speak  about,  and  I  must  be  alone  with  you  to 
say  it." 

"  Say  it  now,"  I  said ;  "  she  will  not  vex  you." 
He  suddenly  turned  his  face  full  on  me  and 
smiled,  as  if  to  crush  me. 

"  I  have  read  your  book,  Aurora." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  read  it  and  I  have  writ 
it,"  replied  I,  "  and  let  us  have  done  with  it. 
And  now  for  the  rest " 

"  The  rest  is  just  like  the  first,"  he  said,  "  for 
the  book  has  stolen  into  my  heart,  lives  in  me, 
dreams  in  me." 

I  replied,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "  It  lived 
in  me  before  it  lived  in  you,  and  I  know  better 


Aurora  Leigh.  175 

how  foolish  and  feeble  it  is,  how  unworthy  of 
such  words." 

"  The  poet  always  looks  beyond  his  book,"  he 
said,  earnestly,  "  but  this  special  book  seems  to 
stand  above  me  and  draw  me  up  to  it.  It  may 
be  that  it  is  not  so  high,  but  I  so  low." 

I  answered  vaguely,  and  he  taxed  me  with 
inattention. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  I  said,  "  of  a  certain  June  day 
when  you  and  I  talked  of  life  and  art,  while 
both  of  us  were  untried  in  either.  It  was  my 
birthday,  and  was  morning  then,  while  now  it 
is  night." 

"  And  now  night,"  he  repeated,  absently. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  I  resumed,  "  that  if  I  had 
known  on  that  dewy  morning  my  cousin  Eom- 
ney  could  ever  say  such  words  of  a  book  of 
mine,  it  would  have  pleased  me  better  to  hope 
for  them  than  it  can  be  even  now  to  hear 
them." 

"  True,"  he  said  again ;  "  it  is  night." 

"And  there  are  the  stars,"  I  added,  lightly. 
"Let's  talk  of  stars,  not  books." 

But  he  murmured  again  "  night,"  and  seemed 
not  to  hear  me.  At  last  he  broke  out  in  a  low 
voice, — 

"  I  have  come  to  you,  Aurora,  just  to  breathe 
out  my  soul  before  I  humbly  go  away  forever, 
like  a  punished  child  into  a  corner." 


176  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  "Wisely,  cousin,"  I  said,  "  and  worthily  of  both 
of  us." 

"  Yes,  worthily,"  he  continued ;  "  for  this  time 
I  mean  to  confess  that  I,  who  felt  the  world 
tugging  at  me  for  help  as  if  there  was  no  other 
to  do  the  work,  that  I,  to-night,  know  myself 
for  just  what  I  was  on  that  June  day.  You 
were  young,  Aurora,  but  you  spoke  the  truth  ; 
while  I — well,  I  built  up  follies  that  shut  the 
sunshine  away  from  my  face." 

"  Speak  wisely.  Cousin  Leigh,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  but  too  late,  dear  Aurora,"  he  replied. 
"  I  was  heavy  and  stupid  then,  and  heard  the 
cries  of  misery  so  close  that  I  never  distinguished 
the  sound  of  angel- wings  in  the  air.  The  world 
seemed  one  great  famishing  mouth,  and  I  was 
put  there  to  supply  it  with  bread,  nothing  more." 

"  Ah,  you  are  sad  to-night,  cousin,"  I  said. 
"  Did  all  your  labors  at  Leigh  Hall  really  come 
to  naught  ?" 

"  All  to  naught,"  he  said,  half  smiling  at  his 
discomfiture.  "  They  broke  my  windows ;  and 
I  was  shot  at  once  or  twice,  but  escaped  injury. 
Finally  they  set  fire  to  the  Hall  and  burned  it 
to  the  ground.  You  have  never  heard,  then  ? 
Vincent  could  not  have  sent  all  the  news." 

"  They  did  ?"  I  cried ;  "  they  actually  burnt 
Leigh  Hall?" 

"  You're  sorry,  Aurora !    Yes,  they  did  it  com- 


Aurora  Leigh.  177 

pletely,  a  thorough  piece  of  work ;  no  failure 
there  !" 

"  Then  I  shall  never  again  see  the  old  chim- 
neys from  my  little  window  ?" 

"No  more,"  he  said.  "If  you  should  climb 
the  hills  now  you  would  come  to  a  great  charred 
circle,  with  a  single  stone  stairway  in  its  midst 
winding  up  to  nowhere,  just  like  my  life." 

I  did  not  make  any  answer.  Had  I  a  right 
to  sympathize  with  this  man,  between  whose 
soul  and  mine  stood  another  woman?  The 
silence  lengthened  till  it  grew  oppressive.  Then 
I  spoke  to  keep  from  stifling. 

" I  think  5'ou  were  ill  afterwards?" 

*'  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  but  unluckily  I  failed  to  die, 
just  as  I  have  always  failed  to  live,  and  thus, 
having  tried  all  other  ways,  I  resolved  to  trust 
in  Grod's  way.  We  make  up  our  virtues  so  often 
out  of  threadbare  sins.  Is  it  right,  for  instance, 
to  wed  here  while  you  love  there  ?  But  if  a 
man  sins  once,  the  sin  so  sticks  to  him  that  if 
he  does  not  sin  to  damn  himself,  he  sins  to 
damn  others  with  himself,  thus  to  wed  here 
while  loving  there  becomes  a  duty.  But  she 
is  certainly  my  true  wife,  poor  lamb,  poor  child ; 
and  yet,  Aurora,  it  is  cruel  to  vex  you  any 
more  now ;  having  said  what  I  came  to  say,  I 
will  try  to  please  you.  She  shall  have  all  that 
is  needful  for  her  and  hers:  protection,  teu- 
II. — in 


178  Tales  from,  Ten  Poets. 

der  liking,  freedom,  ease.  They'll  make  small 
amends  for  the  hideous  evil  she  would  have 
escaped  but  for  me,  and  for  this  loss  of  a  gra- 
cious friend,  which  she  must  also  forfeit  for  my 
sake " 

Here  he  stopped  and  reached  out  his  hand, 
I  looked  up,  and  he  said, — 

"  Drop  your  hand  for  a  moment  in  mine,  sweet ; 
we're  parting  now." 

I  timidly  touched  his  fingers. 

"  "What  a  touch !"  he  said.  "  You  grudge  me  a 
parting  hand-shake  ?  Are  you  angry  because  I 
could  not  bear  even  you  living  side  by  side  with 
one  I  called  my  wife  ?  Do  not  be  so  cruel, 
Aurora ;  you  must  understand  me.  Your  light- 
est footflill  would  shake  my  whole  house.  It  is 
night  henceforth  with  me,  and  I  put  up  the 
shutters  against  Auroras." 

He  smiled  feebly,  with  his  hand  stretched 
sideways  towards  me,  and,  rising,  I  wondered 
if  he  had  gone  mad  under  stress  of  his  suffering. 
I  spoke  quietly  with  a  tremulous  pride  : 

"  Go,  cousin ;  a  farewell  was  sooner  spoken  in 
those  old  days  than  seems  now  to  suit  you.  I 
wish  you  well.  I'm  sorry  for  the  trials  you've 
had,  not  only  for  your  sake,  but  mankind's.  We 
can  never  shift  our  places  as  dear  friends — no, 
do  not  interrupt  me  ;  but,  as  you  said,  we  are 
parting.    More  than  once  to-night  you've  un- 


Aurora  Leigh.  179 

deservedly  mocked  me,  and  I  am  much  surprised. 
So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  Eomney,  you  will 
owe  your  wife  no  amends.  She  has  not  held  so 
fast  to  my  gown  that  you  will  have  to  entreat 
her  to  let  go.  The  lady  never  was  a  friend  of 
mine,  so,  rest  content,  I'll  never  intrude  upon 
your  happiness ;  you  need  not  put  up  the  shut- 
ters to  keep  out  Auroras.  My  larks  fly  higher 
than  some  people's  windows.  It  would  indeed 
shake  your  house  if  I  came  with  an  outstretched 
hand  warm  from  the  clasp  of  one — of  one  we 
know — to  acknowledge  as  mistress  there  a  Lady 
Waldemar." 

"  Now  God  be  with  us !"  he  interrupted,  with 
a  sudden  clash  of  voice.  "  What  name's  that, 
Aurora?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said ,  "  I  hope  I  may  name 
your  wife  without  wounding  you." 

"  Are  you  mad  ?"  he  cried.  "  Wife !  Mine ! 
Lady  Waldemar !"  He  threw  his  noble  head 
back  and  laughed  with  a  sort  of  helpless  scorn, 
while  I  stood  and  trembled. 

"May  God  judge  me!"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
stand  convicted  and  sorely  humbled.  I  came 
because  you  had  shown  me  from  your  own  soul 
a  glimpse  of  true  light ;  because,  too,  I  had 
formerly  wronged  you,  and  have  ever  since  by 
my  arrogance,  though  I  loved  you  best,  as  is 
written  plainly  in  the  book  of  my  misdeeds.    I 


180  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

came  here,  I  say,  to  abase  myself,  and  fasten 
the  garland  on  brows  whence  I  had  once  wrong- 
fully plucked  it.  But  here  again  I  am  baffled. 
There's  no  room  left  for  me  at  the  feet  of  any 
woman  who  misconceives  my  nature,  purpose, 
possible  actions.  Ah,  Aurora,  you've  left  your 
height  and  we  take  hands  on  my  level.  I  reach 
down  to  forgive  you,  sweet,  and  that's  a  fall. 
Men  have  burnt  my  house,  maligned  my  mo- 
tives, but  not  one,  I  swear,  has  wronged  my 
soul  as  you  have,  who  can  call  Lady  Walde- 
mar  my  wife  !" 

"Not  married  to  her!"  I  cried.  "Yet  you 
said " 

"  Again  ?  But  read ;  she  sent  you  this  through 
me!" 

He  held  out  a  letter,  and  I  mechanically  took 
it  from  him. 

VIII. 

LadtWaldemar's  letter  was  one  of  ill-hidden 
hatred.  She  told  me  in  sentences  made  to  sting, 
but  subtly  woven  with  courtesy,  how  she  envied 
and  loathed  me.  She  told  me,  too,  what  it  was 
more  interesting  and  novel  for  me  to  learn,  that, 
having  nursed  Eomney  through  his  illness,  and 
exercised  her  most  winning  allurements  on  him, 
yet  she  had  found  him  unyielding,  and  at  last 
abandoned  the  pursuit.     Ho  had  asked   her, 


Aurora  Leigh.  181 

as  he  grew  better,  to  read  from  my  book  to  Kim, 
•which  she  had  done  with  the  best  grace  possi- 
ble; but  it  was  an  unpalatable  task  after  her 
months  of  self-sacrifice,  and  she  resolved  that 
next  time  he  should  find  another  reader.  She 
triumphed  over  us  both,  she  said,  and  abruptly- 
left  him.  When  she  next  saw  him,  she  had 
read  my  letter  and  her  own  heart  as  well.  He 
went  with  Lord  Howe  to  thank  her,  but  she 
received  them  with  coolness,  and  asked  his  par- 
don for  having  been  so  unwise  as  to  love  him. 
She  was  quite  cured  of  the  malady  by  that  time. 
Then  she  told  him  her  version  of  Marian's  story, 
which  she  repeated  in  this  letter  to  me,  and 
which  touched  with  less  sombre  tints  the  details 
of  the  cruel  plot,  throwing  new  suspicion  on 
Marian  to  excuse  her  own  part  in  it.  She  heaped 
some  vindictive  words  on  me  at  the  close  of  her 
letter,  and  ended  by  avowing  a  bitter  hatred,  even 
cursing  me  for  having  defrauded  her  of  love. 

When  I  had  done  reading,  I  stood  there  in 
the  moonlight  by  Eomney's  side  confused  and 
deeply  wounded.  I  had  caught  the  sense  of 
the  letter  in  a  momentary  glance  through  it. 

"  Ah,  not  married  ?"  I  said. 

"  You  mistake,"  he  answered,  softly.  "  I  am 
mari-ied.  Is  not  Marian  Earle  my  wife?  As 
God  sees  things,  I  have  a  wife  and  child ;  and 
as  I  honor  God,  I  am  here  to  claim  them!" 

1^ 


182  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  my  breath  and  harder 
still  to  speak. 

But  some  one  else  had  come  there  to  speak 
for  me. 

"Eomney!  my  good  angel,  Eomney!"  she 
said,  in  an  ardent  whisper. 

Then  for  the  first  time  I  knew  that  Marian 
Earle  was  beautiful.  She  stood  like  a  pale  saint 
in  an  ecstasy, — as  if  the  moonlight  streamed  be- 
tween her  feet  and  the  earth  and  raised  her  up 
upon  its  steady  rays. 

"  I  left  my  child  asleep,"  she  said,  "  and  was 
drawn  here  by  your  voices.  I  heard  your  last 
words,— friend!  Confirm  me  now.  You  take 
this  Marian  just  as  she  is  for  your  honorable 
wife  ?" 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  towards  her  thrill- 
ing voice,  as  if  to  draw  it  into  an  embrace. 

"I  take  her  as  God  made  her  and  as  men 
have  failed  to  unmake  her,  for  my  honored 
wife." 

She  neither  raised  her  eyes  nor  moved. 

"  You  take  this  Marian's  child,  which  is  also 
her  shame,  in  sight  of  men  and  women,  for 
your  own  child,  of  whom  you  will  never  feel 
ashamed  ?" 

lie  stepped  towards  the  proud  and  pathetic 
voice,  still  with  outstretched  arms,  as  if  he  de- 
sired to  quench  it  upon  his  breast. 


Aurora  Leigh.  183 

"  May  God  so  father  me  and  so  forsake  me  as  I 
do  Marian's  child  whom  here  I  take  in  all  things 
as  my  own." 

Then  she  turned  slowly  towards  me :  "  And 
you, — will  you  blame  me  very  much?  What 
if  I  take  this  hand  stretched  out  to  us  as  a 
grace  and  protection  for  him?  I  will  be  bound 
by  what  you  say." 

She  spoke  in  a  low,  passionless  voice  as  one  in 
authority,  not  lowly  Marian  Earle. 

"  Accept  the  gift,  say  I,  sister  Marian,  and  be 
satisfied  there's  a  soul  behind  the  hand  that  will 
never  quail  for  having  given,  no  matter  what 
the  world  babbles.  Here's  my  hand,  too,  to 
clasp  yours ;  and,  as  I'm  a  woman  and  a  Leigh, 
I  vow  that  Eoinney  is  honored  in  his  choice." 

Her  broad,  wild,  woodland  eyes  shot  out  a 
rapturous  light. 

"Thank  you,  my  great  Aurora!"  And  she 
sprang  forward,  dropping  her  impassioned  head 
with  all  its  brown  curls  like  a  spaniel  on  Eom- 
ney's  feet.  We  heard  the  kisses  drawn  through 
her  sobs. 

"  Oh,  Romney,  oh,  my  angel,  unchanged, 
though  I  have  passed  through  the  grave  since 
we  parted !  Death  itself  could  only  change  you, 
not  make  you  better!" 

When  he  tried  vainly  to  raise  her  to  his  arms, 
she  leaped  like  a  fawn  and  alighted  beyond  his 


184  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

reach.  She  stood  there  with  her  great  eyes 
and  drijDping  cheeks,  and  shook  her  head  as  if 
to  keep  down  some  rising  thoughts.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  she  said, — 

"  But,  Eomney,  if  one  who  loved  you  as  I 
once  loved  is  dead  and  gone  away  where  there 
is  no  wedlock,  will  she  ever  be  able  to  revive 
and  wed  you  now?  You'll  see  it  plainer  after- 
wards. It  is  fated  that  you  and  I  must  never, 
never  join  hands.  Do  not  think  I  speak  from 
a  false  humility.  I  have  come  to  learn  through 
the  long  nights  that  a  woman,  poor  or  rich, 
honored  or  despised,  is  a  human  soul.  I  know 
you'll  not  be  angry,  Eomney,  when  I  tell  you 
the  truth.  Yet  truly,  I  do  not  love  you.  Did  I 
once,  or  did  I  only  worship  ?  I  never  questioned. 
I  never  thought  to  be  anything  but  your  slave. 
I  was  wholly  yours ;  but  that  was  before  I  heard 
my  child  cry  in  the  desert  night.  For  me,  the 
ghost  of  Marian  loves  no  more, — nothing,  ex- 
cept the  child.  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  on 
a  good  man's  knee.  I  swear,  that  if  I  loved 
you  like  some  I  know, — for  eyes  that  weep  see 
clearly — ^yet  I've  no  room  for  more  children  in 
my  arms;  my  kisses  are  all  melted  on  one 
mouth.  As  for  you,  wed  a  noble  wife,  and 
open  your  great  souls  upon  each  other.  If  I 
dared  reach  towards  her  in  her  upper  sphere 
and  bid  her  come  down  to  you,  I  should  be  full 


Aurora  Leigh.  185 

of  joy.  But  I  dare  not, — though  I  guess  her 
name.  I  remember  how  vexed  you  were  in  the 
old  days  when  some  one  came  or  did  not  come. 
I  could  touch  her  now,  but  I  fly  because  I  dare 
not  do  it." 

She  was  gone.  He  smiled  so  sternly  that  I 
hastened  to  speak. 

"  Forgive  her,"  I  said ;  "  she  sees  clearly  what 
is  best  for  herself.    Her  instinct  is  holy." 

"  I  forgive,"  he  said.    "  I  only  marvel  that 

she  sees  so  surely,  while  others "    Here  he 

paused,  then  hoarsely  and  abruptly  went  on : 
"  Aurora,  can  you  forgive  her  and  me  ?  You 
know  she  loves  you  well,  while  for  me — if  I 
have  once  or  twice  let  my  heart  escape  to-night, 
remember  we're  parting !"  Then  again  he  broke 
through  his  assumed  repose  and  cried,  passion- 
ately, "  O  love,  I  have  loved  you !  O  my  soul, 
I  have  lost  you !  But  I  swear,  I  am  not  so  base 
as  to  regret  that  June  morning  or  this  night 
which  is  still  fair  to  you.  Not  so  blind,  Aurora ; 
I  protest,  that,  by  those  stars  which  I  cannot 
see " 

"  You  cannot,  Eomney  ?" 

"  — that,  if  Heaven  itself  should  remix  the  lots 
and  give  me  another  chance  I'd  say, '  No  other !' 
Aurora  never  must  be  my  wife." 

"  Not  see  the  stars  ?"  I  repeated. 

"  It  is  worse  still,  dear,  not  to  see  your  hand, 

16* 


186  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

although  we  are  parting.  Let  me  hold  it  a  mo- 
ment before  I  go,  and  understand  my  last  words. 
I  would  not  have  you  think  when  I'm  gone  that 
I  dared  to  hanker  for  your  love  and  wished  to 
use  it  as  a  dog,  to  help  a  stumbling  blind  man. 
God  forbid!  Believe  me,  dear,  if  I  had  known 
what  loss  was  to  come  upon  me,  I  would  have 
done  as  well  as  He  has  who  kept  your  eyes  wide 
for  my  faults.  Farewell,  then,  you  who  are  still 
my  light.  It  is  very  late,  I  know  that,  now. 
You've  been  too  patient,  sweet.  I  will  blow  my 
whistle  out  towards  the  lane,  and  the  one  who 
brought  me  will  come.     Go  in.     Good-night." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  I  cried.  "  It  cannot,  can- 
not be  true!  I  hold  your  hands,  look  into 
your  face, — you  see  me  Eomney,  surely  ?" 

"No  more  than  the  blessed  stars,"  he  said. 
"You  tremble,  dear  Aurora.  The  same  dear, 
soft  heart  as  always.  It  was  this  that  grieved 
me, — Howe's  letter  never  reached  you,  then? 
You  had  heard  of  my  illness,  but  not  all, 
not  of  the  sudden  revulsion  in  the  burning 
house,  the  strain  of  body  and  soul  which  almost 
turned  my  blood  to  fire,  and  then  the  falling 
beam  that  struck  me  on  the  forehead  as  I  passed 
the  gallery-door  with  my  burden?  I  hope  it 
may  have  follen  accidentally,  but  I  dread  to  think 
it  was  tilted  my  way  by  Marian's  father,  whom 
I  had  found  and  tried  to  tame.    But  not  a  word 


Aurora  Leigh.  187 

to  her !  He  laughed,  and  neither  of  us  supposed 
the  wound  so  deep ;  but " 

"Blind,  Eomney?" 

"  You'll  learn  to  say  it  cheerfully,  Aurora.  I 
desponded  a  little  at  first, — it  seemed  hard " 

"No  hope?"  I  asked. 

"  Do  not  cry,  Aurora.  I  feel  your  tears  on 
my  hand.  Yes,  there's  hope, — not  of  sight,  the 
visual  nerve  is  withered.  But  the  man  who 
was  once  so  restless  and  ambitious  to  renovate 
the  world  is  now  contented.  My  personal  loss 
has  made  me  hopeful  for  others  who  lose.  I've 
come  to  a  happier  faith.  I  find  we  gain  through 
compensation.  I  am  as  tender  for  the  suffering 
world  as  of  old,  but  quieter;  more  willing  to 
learn.     Surely  there's  still  hope,  Aurora." 

"Is  there  hope  for  me,  too, — for  me?  If  I 
came  and  said  what  a  woman  should  not  say, — 
pride  lingers,  you  know,  till  we  break  our  hearts 
against  it, — if  I  said, — I  love — I  love  you,  Eom- 
ney !" 

"  Silence !"  he  exclaimed.  "  A  woman's  pity 
may  make  her  mad  ;  but  a  man  must  not  cheat 
his  soul  to  betray  it.  It  is  hard,  though!" 
Then  sadly  turning,  "  Farewell,  Aurora." 

"  But  I  love  you,  Romney ;  and  when  a  woman 
says  she  loves,  the  man  to  whom  she  says  it 
must  hear  her,  even  if  he  does  not  love  her, 
for  which — hush,   you    shall    answer   in   your 


188  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

turn — she  will  not  blame  him.  As  for  me, 
you  call  it  pity  and  generosity ,  and  it  would  be 
easier  for  a  proud  spirit  like  mine  to  let  it  pass 
for  that.  But,  no  matter,  the  truth  must  come 
out.  I  must  be  humble.  No,  my  love  is  no 
mere  pity.  I  am  not  generous, — never  was,  or 
else  I  should  never  have  grudged  so  much  your 
power  to  give.  I  would  take  no  gifts  from  any 
one  but  God,  and  meant  to  use  them  as  I  chose. 
You  admit  you  were  wrong,  Eomney;  but  I 
was  wrong  too  in  most  things:  I  exalted  the 
artist  in  me  at  the  expense  of  the  woman.  Now 
I  know  that  art  is  much,  but  love  is  much  more. 
Oh,  Eomney,  I  am  changed  since  then,  saving 
in  one  thing,  that  is,  I  love  you,  loved  you  first 
and  last  and  will  forever.  They  knew  it.  Lady 
Waldemar  and  Marian,  and  I  might  have  known 
it  too  if  I  had  been  more  honest.  You,  dear, 
mistook  the  world,  but  I  mistook  my  own  heart, 
and  that  was  fatal.  Will  you  leave  me  here, 
then,  Eomney,  so  wrong,  and  proud,  a  mere  in- 
consolable woman  ? — and  I  love  you  so,  I  love 

you,  Eomney " 

I  could  scarce  see  his  face  for  weeping,  and  I 
know  not  whether  I  dropped  against  his  breast 
or  felt  his  arms  first  about  me.  Was  it  my 
cheeks  that  were  hot  and  overflowed  with  tears, 
or  his?  There  were  words  between  us  that 
seemed  to  melt  apart  in  the  utterance,  and  a 


Aurora  Leigh.  189 

long  embrace ;  then  a  kiss,  silent  as  the  wait- 
ing night,  and  deep  shuddering  breaths  that 
meant  all  that  voice  or  kiss  could  not  mean. 
I  have  tried  to  write  down  what  he  said ;  but 
if  an  angel  should  speak  in  thunder,  should  we 
know  anything  saving  that  it  thundered?  I 
only  know  that  he  loved  me  to  the  depth  and 
height  of  his  large  nature,  and  that  I  returned 
his  love. 

I  lifted  my  hand  in  his,  and  he  turned  in- 
stinctively towards  the  eastern  hills,  where  the 
first  foundations  of  that  new  day  which  should 
be  built  out  of  heaven  to  God  were  being  laid 
in  jasper-stone  clear  as  glass.  He  stood  with 
erect  brows  a  moment  in  silence  as  one  who 
gazed  into  the  distance,  and  fed  his  majestic 
blind  eyes  upon  the  thought  of  the  perfect 
noon  to  come.     When  I  saw  his  soul  saw, — 

"  Jasper  first,  Eomney,"  I  said ;  "  sapphire, 
second;  chalcedony,  third;  and  the  rest  in  or- 
der ;  last,  an  amethyst." 


.CVA<>WA  K   ^  :>\vV  Y'Y  kVv 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


JtfA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD. 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 


The  earliest  gray  of  morning  was  stealing  up 
from  the  east,  and  with  it  rose  the  fog  out  of  the 
broad  river  Oxus.  The  Tartar  camp,  which  lay 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  was  still  hushed 
in  sleep,  but  Sohrab  alone  of  all  the  host  was 
stirring.  He  had  tossed  wakefully  upon  his 
bed  of  mats  through  the  long  night,  and  when 
the  first  light  of  morning  stole  into  his  tent,  he 
rose  and  clad  himself  and  put  on  his  sword, 
then  took  his  horseman's  cloak  and  went  out 
into  the  fog,  and  through  the  dim  camp  to 
Peran-Wisa's  tent. 

The  black  Tartar  tents  stood  like  a  cluster  of 
bee-hives  'on  the  flat  shore  of  the  Oxus,  and 
Sohrab  passed  through  them  to  a  hillock  a  little 
back  from  the  water.  Once  the  place  had  been 
crowned  with  a  clay  fort,  but  it  had  fallen  into 
ruin  now,  and  there  the  Tartars  had  built  a 
shelter  for  Peran-Wisa.  It  was  a  dome  of  laths 
with  felts  spread  over  it,  and  inside  were  thick- 
piled  carpets. 

II.— I        n  17  193 


194  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"When  Sohrab  entered,  he  found  the  old  man 
asleep  on  his  bed  of  rugs  with  his  weapons  laid 
near  at  hand.  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though 
his  step  was  dulled  by  the  carpets.  He  rose 
quickly  on  one  arm. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  said  he.  "  It  is  not  yet  clear 
dawn,  and  I  cannot  see.  Is  there  news,  or  a 
night-alarm  ?" 

Sohrab  went  up  to  his  bedside. 

"  You  know  me,  Peran-Wisa.  It  is  I.  The 
sun  is  not  yet  up.  and  the  foe  are  still  asleep. 
I  lay  wakeful  all  night  long,  so  I  have  come  to 
you.  In  Samarcand,  before  we  marched,  King 
Afrasiab  bade  me  ask  your  counsel,  and  heed 
you  as  if  I  were  your  son.  Now  I  need  your 
aid.  Have  I  not  served  Afrasiab  truly  since  I 
first  came  among  the  Tartars  from  Ader-baijan  ? 
Have  I  not  shown  the  courage  of  a  man  in  my 
bojnsh  years?  You  know,  too,  while  I  bear  on 
the  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  and  beat  back  the 
Persians,  that  I  am  always  seeking  my  father, 
Eustum,  who,  I  hope,  may  one  day  greet  me  on 
a  well-fought  field.  Yet  I  can  never  find  him. 
Now  hear  what  I  ask,  and  grant  it  to  me,  for  I 
have  it  much  at  "heart.  To-day  let  the  two 
armies  rest;  but  I  will  challenge  the  bravest 
Persian  lords  to  meet  me,  man  to  man.  If  I 
prevail,  Eustum  will  hear  of  it ;  if  I  fall,  the 
dead  claim  no  kin,  and  all's  well." 


SoJirah  and  Rustum.  195 

Peran-Wisa  took  the  young  warrior's  hand  in 
his  and  sighed. 

"What  an  unquiet  heart  is  yours,  Sohrab! 
Why  cannot  you  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs 
and  share  the  common  chance  with  us  who  love 
you  ?  If  the  one  desire  rules  all,  seek  Eustum 
in  peace,  not  in  war.  Carry  an  unwounded  son 
to  his  arms.  But  you  must  look  far  from  here. 
He  is  not  here.  When  I  was  young  it  was 
different.  Then  Eustum  was  in  the  front  of 
every  fight.  But  now,  either  because  he  is 
growing  old  or  has  quarrelled  with  the  Persian 
king,  he  sits  at  home  in  Seistan  with  his  father 
Zal.  There,  go  now!  What,  you  will  not?  Ah, 
my  heart  forebodes  danger  to  you  on  the  field ; 
but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub  from  ravening  ? 
I  grant  what  you  ask,  Sohrab,  but  I  had  rather 
send  you  away  in  peace  to  seek  your  father." 

He  dropped  the  youth's  hand  and  rose  from 
his  bed,  drawing  his  woollen  coat  on  his  chilly 
limbs.  Then  he  tied  on  his  sandals,  threw  a 
white  cloak  about  him,  took  up  his  ruler's  staff 
and  sheepskin  cap,  and,  raising  the  tent-curtain, 
called  his  herald  to  his  side  and  went  abroad. 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  risen  and  cleared 
the  fog  from  the  river,  and  the  Tartar  horse- 
men were  filing  from  their  black  tents  into  the 
open  plain.  First  went  the  King's  guard,  with 
black  sheepskin  caps  and  long  spears.      They 


196  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"were  large  men,  mounted  on  large  steeds.  'Next 
the  southern  Toorkmuns,  the  Tukas,  the  lances 
of  Salore,  and  those  from  Attruck, — light  men, 
on  light  horses.  After  these  came  a  swarm 
of  wandering  riders  from  far  off,  and  owning 
doubtful  service :  Tartars  of  Ferghana  with 
scanty  beards  and  close-set  skull-caps ;  wild 
hordes  from  the  'northern  wastes ;  Kalmucks 
and  wandering  Kirghizzes  upon  shaggy  horses 
from  Pamere. 

The  Persians  were  forming  on  the  other  side. 
First,  a  light  cloud  of  horse ;  then,  behind  these, 
the  royal  Persian  troops,  both  horse  and  foot,  in 
burnished  armor, 

Down  through  the  Tartar  squadrons  old 
Peran-Wisa,  with  his  herald,  came  slowly  to 
the  front,  keeping  back  the  foremost  ranks  with 
his  staff;  and  when  Ferood,  the  leader  of  the 
Persians,  saw  this,  he  took  his  spear  and  also 
came  to  the  front,  checking  his  ranks  where 
they  stood.  Then  Peran-Wisa  came  out  upon 
the  sand  between  the  silent  armies. 

"  Ferood,  and  you,  Persians  and  Tartars, 
hear!"  said  he,  in  a  clear,  commanding  voice. 
"  To-day  let  there  be  a  truce  between  us,  and 
choose  you  a  champion  among  the  Persian 
lords  to  fight  Sohrab,  our  champion,  man  to 
man." 

A  thrill  of  hope  and  pride  ran  through  the 


Sohrab  and  Bustum.  197 

Tartar  squadrons,  for  they  loved  Sohrab  and 
gloried  in  his  prowess. 

But  the  Persians  were  stricken  with  fear,  and 
Ferood's  brother-chiefs,  Gudurz,  Zoarrah,  and 
Feraburz,  came  up  to  counsel  with  him. 

"  Ferood,"  said  Gudurz,  "  we  must  take  up 
this  challenge,  but  what  champion  have  we  to 
match  Sohrab?  He  has  the  foot  of  the  wild 
stag  and  a  lion's  heart.  Yet  Rustum  came 
hither  last  night,  and  has  sullenly  pitched  his 
tents  behind  the  camp.  Let  me  go  to  him  and 
carry  this  Tartar  challenge  and  the  young  war- 
rior's name.  He  may  forget  his  anger  and 
stand  forth  in  our  defence." 

"  Old  man,"  cried  Ferood  across  to  Peran- 
Wisa,  "  be  it  as  you  say.  Let  Sohrab  arm,  and 
we  will  find  a  man  to  meet  him." 

Then  Peran-Wisa  strode  back  through  the 
opening  squadrons,  and  Gudurz  ran  through 
the  ranks  of  anxious  Persians,  and  crossed  the 
camp  to  Rustum's  tents  out  on  the  sand.  They 
were  of  scarlet  cloth.  The  high  pavilion  in  the 
centre  was  Eustum's,  and  there  Gudurz  found 
him,  still  at  the  table,  though  he  had  finished  his 
morning  meal.  Before  him  was  a  side  of  roasted 
sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread,  and  dark-green 
melons ;  but  he  sat  listlessly  playing  with  a 
falcon  perched  on  his  wrist.  Gudurz  went  up 
and  stood  before  him,  and  presently  EusLum 

17* 


198  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

saw  him,  and  sprang  forward  with  a  cry,  drop- 
ping the  bird,  and  greeting  him  with  both 
hands. 

"  Welcome !  These  eyes  could  not  see  a  better 
sight.  What  news?  But  sit  down  first,  and 
eat  and  drink." 

Gudurz  stood  impatiently  in  the  tent  door. 
"  Not  now,"  he  said ;  "  a  time  will  come  for 
that,  but  not  to-day.  Other  needs  press.  The 
armies  are  drawn  out.  A  challenge  has  come 
from  the  Tartars  to  choose  a  champion  from 
among  us  to  fight  their  champion.  You  know 
his  name, — he  is  called  Sohrab,  but  his  birth  is 
hidden.  His  might  is  like  yours,  Eustum.  He 
has  the  wild  stag's  foot  and  the  lion's  heart.  He 
is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  either  too  old  or 
too  weak  to  meet  him.  Come  down  and  help 
us,  or  we  shall  be  shamed." 

Eustum  smiled  disdainfully. 

"  If  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,"  he  said,  "  I  am  older. 
If  the  young  are  weak,  the  King  has  erred,  for 
he  himself  is  young  and  honors  younger  men, 
letting  us  who  are  old  moulder  to  our  graves. 
He  loves  me  no  more,  but  loves  the  young,  and 
they  may  answer  Sohrab,  not  I.  What  do  I 
care  that  his  fame  is  great?  Would  I  had  such 
a  son  myself,  and  not  a  helpless  girl  such  as  I 
have, — a  brave  and  famous  son  to  send  to  war, 
while  I  might  tarry  with  aged  Zal,  my  father, 


Sohrab  and  Rustum.  199 

who  is  vexed  yearlong  by  the  Afghan  robbers, 
and  has  no  one  to  guard  his  weak  old  age." 

"  But  what  will  be  said,  Eustum,"  replied 
Gudurz,  "  when  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  to 
fight,  and  seeks  you  most  of  all,  and  yet  you 
hide  your  face?  Take  heed,  or  it  may  be 
thought  that  you  hoard  your  fame,  and  fear  to 
try  your  strength  with  a  younger  man." 

"  What  is  one  more  or  less,  famous  or  obscure, 
valiant  or  craven,  to  me  ?  Who  would  do  great 
deeds  for  unworthy  men  ?  But  come,  you  shall 
see  how  I  hoard  my  fame ;  yet  I  will  fight  un- 
known, and  in  plain  arms." 

Gudurz  turned  and  ran  back  through  the 
camp,  and  Eustuna  strode  to  his  tent  door  and 
called  in  his  followers,  bidding  them  bring  his 
arms.  He  clad  himself  in  plain  arms ;  his  shield 
had  no  device,  and  his  helm,  inlaid  with  gold, 
held  in  its  fluted  spine  a  plume  of  scarlet  horse- 
hair. Thus  armed,  Eustum  came  from  his  tent, 
and  his  horse,  Euksh,  followed  like  a  hound  be- 
hind him.  He  was  a  bright  bay,  with  a  lofty 
crest  and  a  saddle-cloth  of  embroidered  green 
crusted  with  gold.  Eustum  crossed  the  camp 
and  came  in  sight  of  the  Persian  hosts,  who 
hailed  him  with  shouts  of  welcome ;  but  the 
Tartars  did  not  know  him  in  his  undecorated 
mail. 

Eustum  advanced  to  the  Persian  front ;  and 


200  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Sohrab,  who  had  armed  himself  in  Haraan's 
tent,  came  forward  through  his  followers,  who 
opened  for  him  as  the  grain  opens  before  the 
wide  swaths  of  a  reaper.  On  either  hand  were 
squares  of  men  with  bristling  spears,  and  in 
their  midst  ran  down  an  open  way  to  the  front. 
As  Rustum  came  forth  upon  the  sand  he  cast 
his  eye  towards  the  Tartar  tents  and  saw  Sohrab 
also  advance. 

The  old  warrior  curiously  eyed  the  presump- 
tuous "youth  who  had  defied  the  Persian  chiefs. 
He  gazed  long  at  him,  admiring  his  sj^irited  air 
and  wondering  who  he  was.  He  seemed  very 
youthful,  and  tenderly  reared ;  tall,  dark,  and 
straight  like  a  young  cypress.  A  deep  pity 
entered  Eustum's  soul  as  he  beheld  him  coming, 
and,  raising  his  hand,  he  beckoned  to  him. 

"  Take  heed,  young  man,"  he  called  ;  "  the  air 
of  heaven  is  soft  and  very  pleasant,  but  the 
grave  is  cold.  Mark  me !  I  am  mighty  and 
clad  in  iron.  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field  of 
blood  and  fought  many  a  foe  :  never  was  that 
field  lost  or  that  foe  saved.  Why,  Sohrab,  will 
you  invite  death  ?  Be  governed  by  me ;  quit 
the  Tartar  host  and  come  to  Iran.  Be  my  son, 
and  fight  under  my  banner  till  I  die.  There 
are  no  youths  in  Iran  as  brave  as  you." 

Sohrab  heard  the  deep  voice  and  saw  the 
giant  figure,  which  stood  like  a  tower  on  the 


Sohrab  and  Rustum.  201 

sand.  He  saw,  too,  the  head  streaked  with 
gray  hairs,  and  a  new  hope  came  to  his  soul. 
He  ran  forward  and  embraced  the  champion's 
knees  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  by  my  father's  head,  by  your  own  soul, 
are  you  not  Eustum  ?    Speak !  are  you  not  he  ?" 

Eustum  eyed  him  askance  and  turned  away, 
wondering  within  himself  what  the  young  fox 
might  mean.  These  Tartar  boys,  he  thought, 
are  wily  and  false.  If  I  confess  what  he  asks 
and  say  I  am  Eustum,  he  will  not  yield,  nor  quit 
our  foes,  but  he  will  find  some  pretext  for  not 
fighting,  perhaps  praise  my  fame  and  offer  me 
gifts.  Then  when  he  is  feasting  some  day  in 
King  Afrasiab's  hall  he  will  say,  I  once  chal- 
lenged all  the  Persian  lords  to  meet  me  in  single 
fight ;  but  only  Eustum,  among  them,  dared  to 
come  forth.  Then  he  and  I  exchanged  gifts 
on  equal  terms  and  parted.  This  is  what  he 
will  say,  and  his  countrymen  will  applaud  him, 
while  the  Persian  chiefs  will  be  shamed  through 
my  weakness. 

Thus  reflecting,  the  old  warrior  looked  down 
and  said, — 

"  Else !  Why  do  you  vainly  ask  for  Eustum  ? 
I  am  here  whom  you  have  called.  Make  your 
boast  good,  or  yield.  Is  it  solely  with  Eustum 
you  would  fight?  Men  look  on  his  face  and 
flee." 


202  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Sohrab  rose  to  his  feet :  "  You  cannot  frighten 
me.  I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
JS^o,  Eustum  is  far  away,  and  we  stand  here. 
You  are  vaster,  and  are  pi'oven,  and  I  am 
young ;  but  success  sways  with  the  breath  of 
heaven !" 

Eustum  made  no  answer,  but  hurled  his  spear 
mightily  down  from  his  shoulder.  Sohrab 
watched  it  coming,  and,  quick  as  a  flash,  sprang 
aside.  The  spear  hissed  by  him  and  went 
quivering  into  the  sand,  which  it  sent  flying 
far  and  wide. 

Sohi-ab  threw  in  turn,  and  struck  Eustum's 
shield.  The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned 
the  point.  Eustum  seized  his  club,  a  huge  un- 
lopped  trunk  that  he  alone  could  wield,  and, 
lifting  it,  struck  fiercely  at  Sohrab,  but  the 
youth  sprang  aside,  lithe  as  a  glancing  snake, 
and  the  club  came  thundering  on  the  earth, 
where  it  leaped  from  Eustum's  hand,  who  fol- 
lowed it  and  fell  to  his  knees, 

Sohrab  might  now  have  unsheathed  his  sword 
and  pierced  his  foe  where  he  lay  buried  in  the 
sand,  but  he  looked  on,  smiling,  and  courteously 
drew  back. 

"  You  strike  too  hard,"  he  said.  "  Eise,  and 
be  not  angry.  When  I  look  upon  you,  wrath 
quite  forsakes  my  soul.  You  are  not  Eustum, 
you  say  ?    Who  are  you,  then,  that  can  so  touch 


Sohrab  and  Rustum.  203 

me?  Boy  as  I  am,  I,  too,  have  seen  battles, 
and  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 
But  never  before  has  my  heart  been  so  deeply 
touched.  Old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  heaven. 
Come,  let  us  plant  our  spears  here  in  the  sand 
and  make  a  truce." 

While  he  spoke,  Eustum  had  slowly  risen,  and 
now  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage.  He  left 
his  club  where  it  had  fallen,  but  regained  his 
spear.  The  dust  had  soiled  his  stately  crest  and 
dimmed  his  arms  ;  his  breast  heaved,  and  a  light 
foam  came  upon  his  lips.  Twice  he  tried  to 
speak,  and  twice  was  choked  with  rage. 

"You  girl,  nimble  of  foot,  not  of  hand!"  he 
stammered.  "  You  curled  dancer,  now  fight ! 
No  more  words !  You  are  not  in  Afrasiab's 
gardens  with  the  Tartar  girls,  but  on  the  Oxus 
sands,  and  in  the  dance  of  battle,  with  one  who 
makes  no  play  of  war,  but  fights  it  out  hand  to 
hand." 

Then  Sohrab  drew  his  sword,  and  they  rushed 
together.  Their  shields  clanged,  and  a  great 
din  of  rattling  strokes  arose.  The  heavens 
seemed  to  take  part  in  the  conflict,  for  a  cloud 
grew  suddenly  in  the  sky  and  darkened  the  sun 
over  their  heads,  and  a  wind  rose  and  swept  the 
sand  into  a  mist  that  wrapped  them  about,  and 
concealed  them  from  the  hosts  on  either  hand, 
over  whom  the  sky  was  still  unclouded.     They 


204  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

fought  on  in  the  gloom  with  bloodshot  eyes  and 
laboring  breath.  First  Eustum  struck  Sohrab's 
stiffly-held  shield.  The  steel  spear  rent  the 
tough  plates,  but  failed  to  penetrate  to  the  skin. 
Eustum  plucked  it  back  with  a  groan  of  disap- 
pointment. Then  Sohrab  smote  Eustum's  helm 
with  his  sword,  but  did  not  pierce  it  through, 
though  he  shore  away  the  proud  horse-hair 
plume,  w^hich  never  until  now  had  been  defiled. 
Eustum  bowed  his  head  at  the  blow  ;  and  then 
the  gloom  grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in 
the  air  and  lightning  began  to  gleam,  and 
Euksh,  the  horse,  who  stood  near,  uttered  an 
unearthly  cry.  The  two  hosts  heard  the  cry, 
and  quaked  with  terror.  Sohrab  heard  it,  too, 
but  he  did  not  quail.  He  rushed  on,  and  struck 
again,  and  again  the  old  warrior  bowed  his 
head ;  but  this  time  Sohrab's  blade  sprang  into 
a  thousand  splinters  and  the  hilt  alone  remained 
in  his  hand. 

Eustum  raised  his  head.  His  dreadful  eyes 
glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  the  menacing  spear. 
Then  he  shouted  "  Eustum  !" 

Sohrab  heard  the  shout  and  shrank  back.  He 
scanned  the  advancing  form  with  blinking  eyes. 
Then  he  stood  bewildered,  and  dropped  his  shield, 
and  the  spear  pierced  his  side. 

He  reeled,  and,  staggering  back,  sank  to  the 
ground.      The  cloud   dispersed  and   the  wind 


Sohrab  and  Rustum.  205 

fell,  and  the  sun  came  out  again.  The  two 
armies  could  see  the  pair, — Eustum  standing 
safe  upon  his  feet  and  Sohrab  lying  on  the 
bloody  sand. 

Eustum  smiled  bitterly,  "  Sohrab,"  he  said, 
"  you  thought  to  kill  a  Persian  lord  to-day ;  to 
strip  his  corpse  and  carry  the  trophies  to  King 
Afrasiab's  tent ;  or  else  that  the  great  Eustum 
himself  would  come  forth,  and  that  your  wiles 
would  induce  him  to  take  your  gifts  and  let  you 
go,  so  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise  your 
craft  and  courage,  and  your  fame  would  delight 
your  father  in  his  old  age.  Fool,  you  yourself 
are  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man !" 

"  Unknown  you  are,"  said  Sohrab,  with  a  fear- 
less mien;  "yet  your  fierce  boast  is  in  vain. 
You  do  not  slay  me;  Eustum  and  my  filial 
heart  slay  me.  If  I  were  what  till  to-day  I  have 
been,  and  were  matched  with  ten  like  you,  they 
should  be  lying  here  aiid  I  standing  there.  But 
the  well-loved  name  unnerved  my  arm.  And 
yet  there  is  something  in  yourself,  I  confess, 
which  troubles  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
fall.  Your  spear  pierced  an  armless  foe.  But, 
hear  me,  and  tremble  to  hear :  Eustum  shall 
yet  avenge  my  death ! — Eustum,  my  father, 
whom  I  have  sought  through  the  whole  world  !" 

"Eustum!  Father!  What  talk  is  this?  Eus- 
tum never  had  a  son." 

18 


206  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Sohrab's  voice  had  weakened  with  each  utter- 
ance, and  now  as  he  tried  to  speak  it  nearly 
failed  him. 

"  Ah,  yes,  he  had,  for  I  am  that  son.  One  day 
the  news  will  reach  him  where  he  sits  and  tar- 
ries long,  very  far  away  from  here.  It  will 
pierce  him  like  a  stab  to  know  my  fate.  He 
will  leap  to  arms  and  cry  for  vengeance  on  you, 
— vengeance  for  an  only  son.  Eemember  what 
that  will  be !  But  I  pity  my  mother  most.  She 
lives  in  Ader-baijan  with  her  father,  the  old 
King,  who  grows  gray  with  age  and  rules  over 
the  valiant  Koords.  Ah,  I  pity  her,  who  will 
never  again  see  Sohrab  come  home  with  spoils 
and  honor  from  the  Tartar  camp  !" 

Rustum  was  plunged  deep  in  thought.  He 
did  not  believe  Sohrab  was  his  son,  though  he 
called  up  names  he  well  knew.  He  had  had 
sure  tidings,  he  thought,  that  the  child  born  to 
him  was  a  puny  girl.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  sad  mother  had  sent  him  false  news  for 
fear  he  would  seek  the  boy  and  train  him  up  in 
arms.  He  thought  as  he  stood  there  by  the 
youth's  side,  watching  the  agony  of  his  death, 
that  Sohrab  made  a  false  boast  of  being  his  son, 
or  that  the  name  had  been  given  him  to  swell 
his  fame. 

As  the  shepherd  at  dawn  sees  some  far-away 
bright  city  through  the  rolling  clouds,  so  Eus- 


Sohrah  and  Bustum.  207 

turn  saw  his  own  youth,  and  Sohrab's  mother, 
and  the  old  King,  her  father,  who  loved  his 
wandering  guest  so  well  that  he  joyously  gave 
him  his  fair  child  for  a  wife.  Happy  glimpses 
of  the  life  the  three  together  had  once  lived 
in  that  long-distant  summer-time  came  to  him  : 
the  castle,  the  dewy  woods,  the  hunt  and  hound, 
and  the  sunrise  on  the  lovely  hills  of  Ader-bai- 
jan.  Then  iie  gazed  anew  on  the  slaughtered 
boy,  of  likely  age  and  face  to  be  his  own  son. 

"  Oh,  Sohrab,"  he  cried,  piteously,  "  you  are 
indeed  such  a  son  as  Rustum,  were  you  his, 
would  have  loved !  But  you  err,  for  Eustum 
had  no  son.  He  had  one  child,  but  a  girl,  who 
is  with  her  mother  now,  and  never  dreams  of 
war." 

Then  Sohrab  spoke  angrily,  for  life  ebbed  fast 
and  he  was  eager  to  prove  his  birth. 

"  Who  are  you,  to  deny  my  words  ?  Truth 
sits  on  the  lips  of  dying  men.  Listen :  I  boar 
here  on  my  arm  the  seal  which  Rustum  gave  to 
my  mother  to  prick  upon  her  babe." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Rustum's  cheeks,  and  his 
mail-clad  knees  shook.  He  smote  his  ringing 
breast  with  one  hand  and  pressed  the  other 
against  his  heart. 

"  Show  me,"  he  said ;  "  for  that  is  a  proof 
which  cannot  lie." 

With  weak  and  hasty  fingers  Sohrab  undid 


208  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

his  belt  and  bared  his  arm  near  the  shoulder. 
There,  pricked  in  faint  vermiKon,  was  the  tell- 
tale sign.  It  was  a  picture  of  the  griffin  which 
of  old  reared  Zal,  Eustum's  father,  who  was  left 
to  die  on  the  mountains. 

"  How  do  you  say  ?"  asked  Sohrab.  "  Is  that 
Eustum's  sign,  or  another's  ?" 

Eustum  gazed  at  it  long  and  intently  without 
a  word.  At  last  he  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  self- 
reproach  :  "  Oh,  boy !  your  father !" 

He  choked,  and  a  dark  cloud  came  upon  his 
eyes,  and  he  sank  down  on  the  sand. 

Sohrab  crawled  up  to  him  and  threw  his  arms 
about  his  neck,  kissing  his  lips  passionately  and 
stroking  his  cheeks  with  weakening  fingers,  in 
his  eagerness  to  bring  him  back  to  life. 

Presently  Eustum  opened  his  eyes  wide  with 
horror.  He  seized  the  dust  with  both  hands 
and  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his 
glittering  armor.  Then  he  clutched  his  sword 
and  would  have  taken  his  own  life ;  but  Sohrab 
divined  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands  with  all 
his  feeble  strength. 

"  Forbear,  father !"  he  cried.  "  The  doom  I 
meet  to-day  was  written  down  long  ago,  and 
you  are  only  the  unconscious  hand  of  heaven. 
My  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  you  when  I  first 
saw  you,  and  your  heart  spoke  also ;  I  knew  it. 
Fate  trod  the  promptings  down  with  its  iron 


Sohrab  and  Bustum.  209 

heel.  But  I  have  found  my  father,  and  what 
does  it  matter  ?  Come,  sit  here  beside  me  on 
the  sand  and  take  my  head  between  your  hands, 
kiss  my  cheeks  and  wash  them  with  your  tears ; 
and,  father,  say '  My  son'  to  me.  Quick,  for  my 
sands  of  Ufe  are  ebbing  away." 

Sohrab's  pleading  voice  touched  the  old  war- 
rior's heart,  and  insensibly  the  tears  came  into 
his  eyes.  He  threw  his  arms  around  his  son's 
neck  and  wept  aloud. 

An  awe  fell  on  both  the  armies  when  they 
saw  Eustum's  grief,  and  the  horse,  Euksh,  with 
his  head  bowed  to  the  ground  and  his  mane 
sweeping  the  dust,  come  near.  He  moved  first 
to  the  one,  then  the  other,  as  if  trying  to 
undei*8tand  their  grief.  The  big  warm  tears 
rolled  down  from  his  eyes  and  caked  the  sand. 
Eustum  cried  out  at  him,  blaming  him  for  bear- 
ing his  master  to  that  fatal  field. 

But  Sohrab  looked  up  at  the  faithful  steed, 
and  called  him  by  kindly  names. 

"How  often  has  my  mother  told  me  of  my 
father's  terrible  horse !  She  said  I  should  one 
day  find  both  the  master  and  the  steed.  Come, 
let  me  lay  my  hand  on  your  mane."  And  he 
reached  painfully  towards  it.  "  Oh,  Euksh,  you 
are  more  fortunate  than  I.  You  have  gone  where 
I  shall  never  go, — snufifed  the  breezes  of  my 
father's  home  and  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan. 
U.—o  18* 


210  Tales  from  Ten  Foets. 

Zal  himself  has  stroked  your  mane  and  fed  you 
with  wine-soaked  corn  from  a  golden  platter. 
But  I  have  never  known  his  face  nor  seen  his 
lofty  house.  I  have  lodged  only  among  my 
father's  foes  here  by  the  yellow  Oxus  where  I 
am  to  die." 

"  Would  I  were  beneath  its  waves !"  groaned 
Eustum. 

Sohrab  answered  in  a  grave,  mild  voice :  "  No, 
father,  you  must  hve !  Some  of  us  are  born  to 
do  great  deeds,  and  some  to  die.  You  must  do 
the  deeds  that  I  die  too  young  to  do.  You  are 
my  father,  and  the  gain  is  my  own.  But  come ! 
Here  are  my  followers,  my  loyal  host."  And 
he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  Tartar  camp. 
*'  You  must  not  slay  them.  They  followed  me. 
They  were  my  hope  and  fame.  Let  them  return 
in  peace.  But  bear  me  away  with  you.  I  must 
not  go  back  with  them.  Carry  me  to  Seistan, 
and  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, — ^you 
and  white-haired  Zal  and  all  your  friends.  Then 
lay  me  in  earth,  and  make  a  stately  mound  over 
me,  and  plant  a  tall  pillar  in  its  midst,  so  that 
the  passing  horseman  may  see  it  far  oft'  on  the 
waste  and  say,  '  Sohrab,  the  son  of  mighty  Eus- 
tum, lies  there,  slain  by  his  great  father  in  igno- 
rance of  his  kinship !'  " 

"  It  shall  be  so,  all  as  you  wish,"  said  Eustum  ; 
"  for  I  will  burn  my  tents,  and  quit  the  host,  and 


Sohrab  and  Bustum.  211 

carry  you  to  Seistan.  What  should  I  do  with 
slaying  now?  Would  that  all  I  have  ever 
slain  might  live  again, — even  my  bitterest  foes, 
through  whose  death  I  have  won  fame, — that 
you  might  live  also,  my  son,  my  son  !  Bat  my 
youth  was  all  of  blood  and  battles,  and  so  is 
my  age,  and  I  shall  never  end  my  life  of 
blood  !" 

"  One  day  you  shall  have  peace,"  said  Sohrab, 
"  only  not  now, — not  yet.  It  will  come  on  the 
day  when  you  sail  back,  you  and  the  other  peers 
of  Kai  Khosroo,  over  the  blue  sea  from  laying 
your  dear  master  in  the  grave." 

"  Soon  may  that  day  come !"  said  Eustum, 
with  musing  eyes.  "  Till  then,  if  fate  wills  it,  I 
must  endure." 

Then  Sohrab  smiled  contentedly,  and  drew 
the  spear  from  his  side,  easing  his  wound.  The 
blood  came  welling  from  the  gash,  and  life  flowed 
out  with  it.  The  crimson  torrent  ran  down  his 
cold  white  side.  His  head  drooped,  and  his 
limbs  grew  slack.  He  lay  motionless  and  wan, 
with  closed  eyes ;  and  only  when  the  deep 
gasps  quivered  through  him,  convulsing  him 
back  to  life,  did  he  open  them  and  fix  them 
feebly  on  his  father's  face.  Then,  at  last,  the 
struggling  spirit  passed  out,  and  Sohrab  lay 
dead. 

Eustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak  over  his 


212  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

dead  son's  face,  and  sat  by  him  like  a  fallen 
pillar  in  the  waste. 

Night  came  down  upon  the  solemn  landscape, 
concealing  the  two  hosts,  and  a  cold  fog  crept 
up  from  the  Oxus.  Then  a  hum  of  voices  arose, 
and  fires  began  to  twinkle  through  the  mist. 
Both  armies  had  moved  back  to  their  camps  for 
the  evening  meal. 

But  Eustum  and  the  son  he  had  slain  were 
left  alone  on  the  open  sands. 


.VvKVvV.WO'-ift   '^ 


ROBERT  BUCHANAA. 


THE  TWO   BABES. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


THE  TWO  BABES. 


"  Here's  health,  and  better  fortune  to  you !" 
said  Hugh  Baird,  as  he  raised  his  glass  in  Sandie's 
tap-room.  He  drained  oif  the  draught,  smacked 
his  lips,  and  set  down  the  empty  tumbler. 
"  Houch,  but  it's  strong !"  He  twisted  his  mouth 
into  a  pleased  semblance  of  distaste,  then  winked. 
"  But,  sure,  Sandie's  whiskey's  a  tipple  for 
kings !" 

The  Sabbath  bells  were  sounding  outside  in 
the  tranquil  sunlight,  but  Hugh  Baird  liked 
better  to  spend  his  holiday  among  boon  com- 
panions at  the  inn.  He  was  a  well-to-do  farmer, 
dressed  in  tartan  breeks,  and  he  lounged  at  the 
bar  with  one  hand  deep  in  his  pocket,  as  if 
seeking  imaginary  guineas,  while  the  other 
caressed  his  glass.  He  was  fond  of  talk,  and 
fond,  above  all,  of  directing  his  talk  against 
the  godly-worldly  folk  of  the  village.  He  liked 
his  dinner  hot  of  a  Sunday :  they  liked  theirs 
cold.  They  went  to  church  :  he  went  to  Sandie's 
parlor.      Hence  there  was    a   year-long   feud 

215 


216  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

between  the  pious  church-goers  and  the  histy 
sinner. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  minnow  of  a  man  over 
there?"  asked  Hugh  Baird,  elbowing  a  stranger. 
A  stranger  was  his  peculiar  prey,  for  he  could 
pour  out  all  the  threadbare  tales  of  the  town  to 
him  and  still  find  a  ready  listener.  "  Well,  that's 
Matthew  Bell.  He  holds  his  head  as  high  at 
the  kirk  or  a  fair  as  Sir  Walter  of  Wimplepen, 
The  Lord  preserve  us  !  did  you  mark  the  look 
the  saint  gave  to  the  sinners  as  he  passed  us 
by?  Why,  man,  from  here  to  John  O'GrGut's 
you'd  not  find  a  manikin  who  knows  more  about 
the  Book  of  books,  or  half  so  much  about  that 
mighty  book,  the  Ledger  !  Eich  ?  Ay, — as  his 
fields  of  gold-tasselled  wheat !  Out  of  his  hun- 
dred acres  he  reaps  year  after  year  a  bonnet- 
ful  of  gold.  He  lives  up  there  on  yonder  hill 
where  the  harvest  lies  so  yellow  in  the  sun- 
light." 

The  stranger  was  curious  about  the  godly 
farmer,  and  drew  out  without  much  difficulty  his 
whole  story,  which  was  something  like  this : 

Years  ago  there  was  a  child  born  to  Matthew 
Bell,  as  sweet  as  any  little  one  ever  held  at  a 
'nurse's  breast,  and  when  the  lass  was  tall  enough 
to  touch  Matthew's  watch-chain  with  her  golden 
curls  her  mother  died.  The  country  tattle  said 
that  her  husband's  dismal  pictures  of  the  Pit 


The  Two  Babes.  217 

had   frightened  her  up  to  heaven  before  her 
time. 

But  Maggie,  as  they  had  named  her,  lived  and 
grew  up ;  and,  Sabbath-mad  as  Matthew  was,  he 
could  never  draw  a  cloud  over  her  happy  smiles. 
Later,  when  she  laughed  and  played  on  her 
mother's  grave,  or,  seated  on  his  knee,  seemed 
to  throw  sunshine  on  his  gloomy  eyes,  Matthew 
lacked  the  heart  to  chide  her  even  if  he  could. 

But  it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  Matthew 
thought  most  of  Maggie's  golden  hair  or  of  his 
golden  wheat.  No  one  knew  his  thoughts.  If 
ever  he  dreamed  of  one  whose  gleaming  locks 
lay  beneath  the  grass  and  flowers,  or  fashioned, 
as  fathers  will,  pictures  of  Maggie  in  her  bridal 
dress,  with  a  grand  dowry  and  a  holy  ring,  he 
kept  his  visions  to  himself  Yet,  whether  he 
did  or  did  not,  Maggie  grew  like  a  lily  in  the 
gloom :  fair  and  slim  as  a  lily  indeed  she  was 
when  sixteen  summers  had  turned  her  eyes 
from  blue  to  deeper  blue  and  touched  her  hair 
with  a  new  lustre.  Matthew  Bell's  household 
kept  the  Sabbath  through  the  whole  gloomy 
week,  and  from  morning  to  night  poor  Maggie's 
head  was  dinned  with  Scripture  phrases  and 
puzzling  texts.  To  sing  or  dance,  like  other 
girls;  to  read  a  paper  or  fairytale;  to  eye 
herself  in  the  looking-glass, — all  this  was  stark 
damnation,  prompted  by  the  devil  himself 
K  19 


218  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Maggie's  lot  was  indeed  a  weary  one.  Her 
yellow  hair  was  fastened  up  in  a  frowzy  net 
and  hid  beneath  an  outlandish  bonnet,  and  her 
dress  was  mean  from  head  to  foot,  with  not  a 
single  fine-colored  bow.  Such  a  pitch  did  this 
come  to  at  last  that  when  she  saved  a  pound 
and  secretly  bought  herself  a  bonnet  fit  to  wear, 
her  father  threw  it  into  the  fire.  "  Yanity !"  he 
growled,  and  Maggie  fell  to  weeping. 

Thus  it  came  that  her  friends  christened  her 
Quaker  Maggie,  and  she  mourned  over  her 
shame  all  alone  until,  in  her  heart,  she  came  to 
hate  the  Sabbath-day,  and  preaching,  and  the 
very  Book  itself,  because  they  brought  her  a 
life  of  scorn.  What  wonder  that  she  looked 
with  envy  at  lovely  ribbons  in  the  caps  of  other 
girls? — that  she  thought  far  less  of  what  the 
preacher  said  than  of  the  giggling  smiles  the 
lassies  cast  from  the  pews  all  around  at  her  old 
clothes  ?  What  wonder,  indeed,  that  when  her 
father  questioned  her  about  the  text,  she  knew 
just  as  much  about  it  as  a  child  who  pastes  his 
nose  against  a  candy-shop  window  knows  of 
the  moon  ?  This  kind  of  thing  in  time  made 
Maggie  a  little  sour  in  temper.  In  truth,  she 
grew  as  dull  and  peevish  as  a  school-boy  in  the 
sulks.  Then,  one  fine  day,  her  father  went  off 
and  brought  home  another  wife. 

Mistress  Bell  the  second  was  as  holy  as  the 


The  Two  Babes.  219 

Pope's  big  toe.  She  was  half  a  yard  taller  than 
Matthew,  and,  besides,  she  was  a  widow.  She 
came  of  an  ancient  house,  and,  the  gossips  said, 
stooped  from  her  station  in  allying  herself  with 
a  ploughman's  blood.  She  was  as  tall  and  lean 
as  the  Highland  firs,  and  sharp-featured  as  an 
ancient  Virtue  vexed  with  influenza.  Her  nose 
was  like  a  glowing  cinder,  and  her  sharp-cut 
mouth  was  always  drawing  in  and  out,  while 
her  small  hen's  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "  Confess, 
now,  am  I  not  a  credit  to  creation  ?"  Day  and 
night  her  sole  cry  was  "Vanity,  vanity !"  and 
she  was  forever  hurling  the  vengeance  of 
heaven  at  all  the  comely  hussies  she  met.  You 
may  well  guess  that  when  she  came  to  Matthew 
Bell's  house  and  saw  how  pretty  Maggie  was 
she  loved  her  no  better  than  a  bat  loves  the 
sunshine.  There  was  scolding  and  tears,  scolding 
and  tears,  from  morning  till  night.  This  thing 
was  wrong  and  that  thing  was  wrong.  Maggie 
could  never  bring  herself  to  call  such  a  gray 
mare  mother ;  and  as  for  her  grim  father,  very 
often  a  fellow-feeling  made  his  cankerous  heart 
pity  his  child  a  bit,  but  it  was  as  much  as  his 
ears  were  worth  to  cross  the  Clishmaclaver. 
Maggie  soon  began  to  use  her  own  tongue  to 
answer  back.  She  spoke  words  that  bit  like  an 
adder's  mouth,  but  she  was  sorely  vexed  to  it. 
The   sun    shines   on,  no   matter   how  much 


220  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

mortals  wrangle.  The  earth  grows  fruitful  and 
the  seasons  come  and  go  Avhether  men  live  or 
die.  The  land  was  spreading  acre  on  acre 
around  the  farm,  and  the  money  rang  plen- 
teously  into  Matthew's  pouch ;  for,  in  spite  of 
all  those  pious  ways  of  his  and  of  his  domestic 
troubles,  the  canny  farmer  never  forsook  his 
task  of  making  and  increasing.  Year  by  year 
his  bank-books  and  ledgers  grew  fatter,  and 
year  by  year  the  farm,  with  its  slated  room  and 
white  doors  and  walls,  stood  on  its  hill  amid  the 
harvest  home  like  a  pearl  in  a  lady's  yellow 
hair. 

Before  Maggie  had  reached  her  teens  a  cer- 
tain lad  with  long  limbs  and  pockets  as  empty 
as  last  year's  nest  came  lounging  up  to  the 
farm,  seeking  work.  His  name  was  Eobin 
Anderson,  and  Matthew  sent  him  out  into  the 
wheat  with  a  reaping-hook,  and  bade  him  work 
away  and  show  his  mettle.  Before  the  sunset 
had  made  a  picture  of  the  harvest  above  the 
hills  the  lad  had  earned  a  strong  man's  wajjes. 
Matthew  was  pleased.  He  said  little,  but  ho 
gave  the  boy  a  bed  out  in  the  byre,  and  there  he 
slept  alone  among  the  cattle. 

He  was  indeed  a  clever  lad.  He  worked 
lustily  at  shearing  grain,  and  won  praise,  and 
money  as  well.  He  was  as  strong  as  a  stallion, 
but  as  modest  in  his  ways  as  a  mouse.     When 


The  Two  Babes.  221 

the  Sabbath  came  round  and  Matthew  cast  his 
eyes  about  the  kirk,  whom  should  he  spy  there,  a 
sheep  among  the  flock,  but  Eobin  !  The  laddie's 
eyes  were  east  modestly  on  his  book ;  his  jet-black 
hair  was  combed  neatly  behind  his  rabbit-ears ; 
his  poor  clothes  were  patched  and  brushed  clean, 
and  butter  seemed  melting  in  his  mouth.  When 
he  met  his  master's  gaze  he  blushed  like  a 
maiden  and  seemed  ashamed  to  be  seen. 

Ah,  indeed  was  he  a  clever  lad,  with  fox's 
eyes  and  in  lambskin  gear.  Kirk  over,  Matthew 
took  him  by  the  arm,  and,  with  a  grim,  inquisi- 
torial look,  questioned  him  on  the  text.  Eobin 
had  by  heart  nearly  every  word  the  preacher 
had  said.  Matthew  was  hugely  pleased  to  find 
him  so  good, — so  grand  a  worker  in  the  field 
and  yet  such  a  pattern  at  his  prayers.  "  Keep 
on  as  you've  begun,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "and 
you'll  be  a  wealthy  man  before  you  die  and  go 
to  glory." 

After  that  Eobin  never  missed  kirk,  night  or 
morning.  Then,  later,  he  came  stumping  into 
the  kitchen  one  Sabbath  night  with  an  old  torn 
Bible  in  his  hand,  and  with  hums  and  haws  and 
much  fear  of  giving  offence,  begged  the  farmer 
to  expound  a  text  that  puzzled  him.  IS^ow, 
nothing  pleased  old  Matthew  better  than  a 
chance  to  show  off  the  Grace  of  God  and  his 
own  Scripture  learning  at  once.    He  smiled  and 

19* 


222  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

took  the  book,  put  on  bis  specs  and  read,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  expounded  the  text  with  worldly- 
wise  comment  of  his  own.  Eobin  stood  by  him 
in  awe  and  saw  it  all  plain.  He  thanked  the 
teacher  with  a  kind  of  famished  look,  and,  with 
a  sigh  that  seemed  to  rend  his  very  heart,  wished 
he  were  half  as  holy  and  good  and  learned  as 
Matthew.  After  that  he  came  often  into  the 
house  on  other  errands,  and  would  listen  to  the 
old  farmer  like  a  hungry  sheep.  He  grew  so 
pious  and  holy,  that  when  the  wheat  was  har- 
vested, and  strained  and  put  with  a  golden  glit- 
ter into  the  bank  in  town,  Matthew  paid  off  the 
crowd  of  other  reapers,  but  kept  Eobin  Ander- 
son as  a  laborer  about  the  farm. 

Eobin  was  deep  in  knowledge  both  of  figures 
and  of  the  Book.  He  taught  himself  to  read 
and  write  and  do  sums  while  sinners  were  at 
play.  He  never  spoke  bad  words  nor  tasted 
drink.  Day  by  day  he  throve  in  his  master's 
esteem  and  rose  in  position,  until,  when  the 
house  was  stormed  by  Mistress  Bell  the  second, 
he  played  his  cards  so  adroitly,  and  seemed  so 
mild  and  meek,  that  she  was  won  to  like  him  and 
tuck  him  under  her  maternal  wing.  To  make 
the  story  short,  by  dint  of  bowing,  praying,  and 
laboring  the  clever  chiel  throve  so  well  in  the 
holy  household  that  at  last  Matthew  made  him 
overseer,  and  found  out,  in  time,  that  the  head 


The  Two  Babes.  223 

and  hand  of  Eobin  Anderson  were  as  needful 
to  his  life  as  meat  and  drink  themselves. 

Meanwhile,  what  of  poor  Maggie  ?  Year  by- 
year  she  had  waited  and  worked  and  wept, 
seeing  her  mother's  pitying  eyes  look  down 
on  her  from  among  the  stars.  "Oh,  mother, 
are  you  there  ?  And  may  I  come  to  meet  you  ?" 
she  would  murmur  in  her  bitterness  of  heart  ; 
but  in  spite  of  tears  and  anger  and  weary  pain, 
Maggie  was  bonnie, — grew  bonnier  year  by  year. 
Against  her  will,  and  in  very  perverseness,  health 
loved  her  so  that  it  clung  about  her  like  an  ivy- 
vine,  would  not  forsake  her,  giving  and  taking 
beauty.  She  was  pale,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  the 
pallor  of  the  full-blown  lily,  not  of  disease.  The 
passionate  appeals  made  day  and  night  to  her 
mother  put  new  gleams  of  heaven's  violet  in 
her  eyes.  The  sunshine  w^hich  sparkled  in  her 
hair  tangled  itself  like  ears  of  golden  wheat. 
The  tears  she  so  often  shed  weighed  at  her 
lashes  like  dew-drops,  and  gave  her  head  a 
drooping  grace  sweeter  than  more  ruddy  bold- 
ness. Sombre  gear,  old-fashioned  raiment,  and 
the  like,  served  only  to  make  her  beauty  plainer. 
All  the  scorn  and  arts  which  were  meant  to 
hide  her  beauty  and  humble  her  were  lost  on 
Maggie  Bell.  They  fell  as  darkly  and  coldly  as 
murmuring  rain  in  a  bed  of  flowers.  Through 
it  all  the  flowers  lift  their  heads  and  try  vainly 


224  Tales  from  Te?i  Poets. 

to  shake  off  the  drops,  looking  the  lovelier  for 
their  load. 

Time  wore  slowly  on  till  Maggie  was  sweet 
and  twenty.  Half  the  country-side  went  wild 
over  her  face,  and  the  other  half  about  her 
dowry.  But  what  of  that?  Old  Matthew's 
keen  eyes  were  looking  high  for  a  man  of  god- 
liness and  wealth  to  marry  her  and  add  to  his 
fame.  Nor  would  Mistress  Bell  have  any  idle 
loons  hanging  around  the  farm ;  it  was  neither 
right,  safe,  nor  delicate,  and  it  seemed  that 
Maggie  herself  cared  very  little  for  the  sport. 

Strange,  though,  that  she  should  take  to  Robin 
Anderson.  But  she  did;  and  Matthew  never 
guessed  it,  nor  did  the  Clishmaclaver  have  a 
suspicion.  Many  a  kindly  turn  the  sly  lad  did 
for  Maggie, — many  a  time  screened  her  from 
storm.  Then,  just  when  Maggie's  beauty  was 
full-blown,  a  change  came  over  him.  lie  went 
to  kirk  none  the  less,  but  it  was  plain  that  he 
was  ill  at  ease  and  vexed  with  troublesome 
thoughts.  Often  when  he  was  spoken  to  he 
would  start  and  blush  and  seem  ashamed,  like 
one  detected  in  a  theft.  In  kirk  he  fore-ot  to 
look  at  his  book  and  glanced  nervously  about 
him.  But,  in  truth,  Robin  was  kinder-hearted 
than  he  wished  to  seem,  and,  what  was  more, 
passionate,  in  certain  fleshly  vanities,  like  other 
men,  from  Adam  downward. 


The  Two  Babes.  225 

At  last  the  lilies  on  Maggie's  cheek  grew 
sickly,  and  an  icy  glitter  struck  the  sweetness 
from  her  eyes.  She  made  angry  answers  to 
those  who  chid  her,  and  the  echoes  of  her  foot- 
steps, that  had  once  fallen  as  soft  as  snow-flakes, 
went  hollowly  up  and  down  the  house.  Her 
father  watched  her  with  his  wary  yellow  eye, 
and  the  Clishmaclaver  shrugged  her  old  back 
and  sneered  and  muttered  something  she  dared 
not  speak  out,  for  she  saw  that  Maggie's  fiend 
was  up.  Eobin  Anderson,  with  oily  grace,  tried 
hard  to  make  them  all  agree,  but  in  vain.  By 
and  by  it  was  clear  that  Maggie  was  wandering 
in  a  kind  of  mist.  When  she  was  spoken  to 
she  listened  dreamily  like  one  who  hears  a  dis- 
tant bell ;  and  she,  who  had  been  a  pattern  of 
cleanliness,  became  as  heedless  of  the  world's 
judgment  as  the  nettles  in  a  country  lane. 

This  could  not  last  long.  Harvest-time  came 
once  more,  and  the  reapers  flocked  up  to  Mat- 
thew's farm.  All  around  his  wide  acres  the 
fields  were  thick  and  yellow  with  ripe  grain. 
A  buzzing  murmur  of  labor  rose  from  the  land, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  passed  across  it 
in  dark  patches,  with  spots  of  sunshine  in  their 
wake.  Never  had  the  moon's  horn  been  filled 
so  high  with  ripeness  and  fragrance.  The  very 
heart  of  Matthew  crowed  as  loud  as  a  cock. 
But  on  the  Sabbath-day,  the  first  of  harvest, 
II.— jtj 


226  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  farmer  and  his  wife  sat  in  the  house  with 
Eobin  and  talked  of  holy  matters,  spiced  now 
and  then  with  thoughts  of  gain,  till  it  was  time 
for  prayers.  When  the  hour  came  and  all  were 
summoned,  Matthew  looked  around  and  asked, — 

"  Where's  Maggie  ?"   But  no  Maggie  answered. 

Mistress  Bell  went  flying  from  room  to  room, 
while  the  cry  for  Maggie  passed  out  of  the  house 
into  the  fields  and  byres ;  but  still  she  was  not 
to  be  found. 

At  last  a  cotter's  lass  ran  up,  barefooted  and 
pale, 

"  Oh,  mem !"  she  stammered,  "  Mistress  Bell ! 
Mister  Bell !  You're  looking  oot  for  Maggie,  are 
you  no'  ?     But  Maggie's  gane !" 

"  Gone !    Gone  where  ?"  asked  a  dozen  voices. 

"  Oh,  mem,  to  Edinglass.  I  met  her,  all  her 
lane,  down  the  lawlan',  and  she  was  greeting 
sair.  When  I  looked  she  stayed  and  tell't  me 
a',  and  bade  me  gie  this  message  to  her  faither  : 
<  Tell  him,  Meg,'  says  she, '  I'm  gawn  awa','  says 
she,  'for  gude;  never  to  come  back;  but  that 
I  pray  the  Lord  may  never  be  hard  wi'  him  as 
him  wi'  me,  nor  bring  him  to  as  sair  a  shamefu' 
end.'  Then  she  slipped  awa'  afore  I  kenn'd 
what  she  meant." 

There  was  a  wild  to-do.  Old  Matthew  glared 
like  a  man  gone  mad.  The  Clishmaclaver  fainted. 
The-  reapers  searched  far  and  near  along  the 


The  Two  Babes.  227 

roads  and  down  in  the  village,  but  they  looked 
in  vain. 

Yet  Maggie  did  not  reach  Edinglass  that 
night,  nor  the  next,  nor  many  a  night  after. 
As  she  ran  on  in  the  moonlight  she  was  stricken 
by  a  swoon,  and  her  limbs  held  out  just  until  she 
gained  a  cotter's  door.  Clinching  her  teeth  and 
hands,  she  fell  on  the  threshold.  The  cotter's 
wife,  who  knew  her,  carried  her  in,  and  there  she 
lay  helpless.  Before  the  pale  dawn  stared  at  her 
with  its  dead-man's  eyes  there  came  a  fitful  little 
cry,  which  Maggie  shrieked  to  hear. 

Such  news  spreads  quickly.  Before  the  day 
was  over  poor  Maggie's  shame  was  common 
talk  over  the  whole  country-side.  The  black 
news  came  to  Matthew  where  he  himself  worked 
in  the  field  with  the  hook,  so  eager  was  he  for 
the  harvest  gain.  He  called  down  a  curse  on 
Maggie  and  her  child,  and  clinched  his  fists  to 
scream  out  his  godly  thunder. 

"  Go  to  the  lassie, — go  to  her  at  once  !"  he  cried 
to  Eobin  Anderson,  who  listened  with  drooping 
eyes.  "  Go  to  her  and  tell  her,  if  she  ever  crosses 
my  path  again  I'll  draw  my  fist  across  her  shame- 
less face  and  tread  her  under  my  feet.  Tell  her  so  I 
Tell  her  that,  day  or  night,  be  it  sowing  or  har- 
vest, my  prayers  will  call  a  curse  on  her  head !" 

Eobin  strode  away  without  saying  a  word. 
He  was  as  grim  as  a  thunder-cloud.     Before  an 


228  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

hour  had  passed  he  came  back  to  the  field  and 
told  his  master  that  he  had  done  his  will. 

"  What  said  she  ?"  asked  the  farmer,  frowning 
and  grinding  his  heel  into  the  stubbly  soil. 

"  Naught,"  said  Eobin,  shortly ;  and  he  turned 
away  biting  his  lip  and  scowling  on  the  ground. 
He  worked  on  in  silence  till  the  day  was 
over. 

Very  bitter  was  Matthew  Bell's  heart,  and  all 
his  pleasure  in  the  harvest  was  soured.  But 
when  the  Clishmaclaver  began  that  night  to 
rail  at  Maggie  and  her  shame,  the  grim  farmer 
sharply  bade  her  hold  her  peace,  and  not  to 
mention  Maggie  again.  She  knew  he  was  de- 
termined to  have  his  way,  and  she  stopped  short, 
lookinfj  as  sour  as  buttermilk. 

The  house  grew  dreary  and  silent,  and 
Matthew  took  the  Book,  put  on  his  specs,  and 
tried  to  read ;  but  the  specs  became  dim  with 
the  moisture  from  his  eyes,  and,  with  a  cry 
almost  like  a  curse,  he  closed  the  Book  and 
rushed  out  into  the  darkness. 

Who  could  fathom  his  thoughts  ?  Were  they 
sad,  and  did  pale  conscience  put  on  mourning  ? 
No  one  knew ;  but  for  long,  weary  hours  Mat- 
thew wandered  out  among  the  wheat,  saw  the 
stars  loosened  one  by  one  from  the  night's  gray 
robe  ;  and  then,  at  break  of  day,  returned,  with 
his  eyes  grown  crimson  ;  but  not  through  weep 


The  Two  Babes.  229 

ing.  His  cheeks  were  as  pale  as  frost  on  a  gray- 
window-pane.  But  at  the  edges  of  his  lips  the 
cat's-claws  showed  that  a  selfish  fiend  had  posses- 
sion of  him. 

The  neighbors,  rich  and  poor  alike,  were  little 
loath  to  see  Matthew's  pride  and  his  wife's  con- 
ceit taken  down.  Scandal  echoed  like  a  chime 
of  bells  out  of  tune  from  cottage  to  cottage,  till 
the  whole  place  was  jingling  with  its  discords. 
"With  this  cruel  clangor  in  her  ears,  poor  Maggie 
clasped  her  child  and  fled  away  to  Edinglass. 
Into  the  city's  cloud  of  life  she  faded  like  a 
brownie  into  the  mist. 

Though  the  Clishmaclaver  made  a  good  deal 
of  a  fuss,  she  was  strong  in  constitution  and 
had  a  heart  not  easily  broken.  Poor  lamb  !  she 
bore  her  trouble  as  if  she  were  a  saint  in  stone. 
But  Matthew  went  about  M'ith  a  mildewed  heart, 
lie  never  wept,  and  worked  like  a  horse.  He 
was  absent-minded,  and  his  wandering  eyes 
would  drop  from  your  honest  look  to  the  ground. 
His  shoulders  took  to  stooping,  too ;  and  when 
a  lass  or  a  lad  went  wrong,  his  voice  among  the 
elders  was  not  so  loud  in  rebuke  as  of  old. 

The  pious  Eobin  Anderson  seemed  also  to  be 
burdened  with  a  bitter  load.  Shame  weighed 
heavily  on  him.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  was 
vexed  at  trifles,  he  was  heard  to  swear ;  and 
when  the  harvest  was  all  in,  he  came  as  from  a 

20 


230  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

funeral.  The  nights  grew  long  and  cold,  and  the 
winter  passed.  In  mid-winter  came  a  rumor 
that  Maffffie  lived  the  life  of  the  thousands  who 
were  dead  to  dying  in  Edinglass.  A  flush  like 
crimson  fire  swept  across  Matthew's  face.  In 
the  gusty  gloaming,  by  the  ingleside,  he  fairly 
fell  on  Kobin's  breast,  screaming  her  mother's 
name  to  the  whistHng  of  the  wind. 

But  before  May  arrived  old  Matthew  had 
forgotten  his  shame  and  sorrow  in  a  new  joy, 
that  came  just  on  the  edge  of  finish,  like  a  kiss 
that  hangs  on  a  dewy  lip  in  incompletion.  The 
stars  had  smiled  on  the  lap  of  Mistress  Bell, 
who  promised  at  last  to  obey  the  text :  Be  fruit- 
ful, multiply,  replenish  the  earth— but  in  a 
decent  manner.  When  May  came  blushing  up 
among  her  roses,  a  plump  babe  hung  around 
the  neck  of  Matthew's  wife,  which  she  in  turn 
clutched  with  a  conscious  pride. 

Matthew's  heart  was  high.  His  old  lungs 
were  as  loud  as  chanticleer.  In  his  joy  he  could 
have  hugged  the  very  midwife,  if  she  had  been 
less  notable  for  snuff  and  snappishness.  It  was 
untold  bliss  to  have  a  son  and  heir  who  would 
keep  his  memory  green  after  he  was  gone,  and 
multiply  his  siller. 

But  there  was  one,  only  one,  on  the  farm  who 
Beemed  not  to  welcome  the  baby.  That  was 
Robin  Anderson.      At  eight-and-twenty  the  sly 


The  Two  Babes.  231 

Robin  was  a  man  of  power.  He  was  full  six 
feet  high,  with  whiskers  like  a  fox  and  eyes 
that  were  deep-set  under  calculating  brows. 
He  always  avowed  himself  above  all  corporal 
lusts  and  vanities,  and  when  he  was  asked  if  he 
meant  to  marry  he  would  flout  the  notion.  "  He 
marry!  Buy  a  kiss  in  kirk,  then  strangle  his 
freedom  with  an  apron-string !  Waste  his  sub- 
stance on  a  pack  of  noisy  youngsters  ranged 
like  polished  pots  in  a  tavern  ?     Not  he !" 

When  the  joy  over  the  new-born  heir  was 
at  its  full,  Robin  went  very  little  into  the  farm- 
house. Once  when  they  brought  the  infant  to 
him  as  he  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire  he  snickered 
out  a  feeble  smile,  and  touched  it  with  his  great 
forefinger  as  one  inspects  some  curious  fish.  He 
seemed  half  afraid  it  would  bite.  When  he 
was  sorely  pushed,  he  confessed  it  was  a  bonny 
bairn,  but  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  as  if  the 
bonniness  were  a  sad  thing  to  see.  After  that, 
do  all  he  could,  and  clever  as  he  was  at  acting  a 
part,  he  never  showed  any  liking  for  the  child. 
God  knew  what  was  in  his  heart,  but  it  seemed 
to  Robin  that  he  could  have  dealt  better  with  a 
full-grown  man  than  with  such  a  restless  and 
fretful  little  thing,  which  he  quite  lacked  the 
art  to  handle.  At  last  he  fairly  threw  all 
shame  aside  and  kept  away  from  the  child,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  biting  cur. 


232  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Matthew  was  little  pleased  at  all  this,  and  the 
mother  much  less.  She  grew  high  and  Matthew 
grew  stiff,  and,  as  the  year  wore  on,  both  were 
colder.  Robin  was  bothered  sorely.  He  did 
not  say  much,  and  toiled  oh  as  usual,  late  and 
early.  He  went  to  his  work  blackened  in  sanc- 
tity to  the  very  finger-tips ;  and  he  often  rode 
to  Edinglass  to  spend  a  whole  day  with  his 
cousins,  as  he  said.  But  sometimes  in  the  har- 
vest-field when  no  one  was  by,  Robin  would 
hear  a  weakly  voice  moaning  among  the  wheat. 
A  tearful  sobbing  filled  his  ears  when  the 
autumn  rains  fell ;  and  in  his  soul  he  saw  the 
image  of  a  child  battling  with  fiends.  He  grew 
to  hate  himself,  and  to  loathe  the  cold  snake 
that  shed  its  slime  on  his  heart. 

Then  once  again  came  the  harvest.  The 
reapers  went  afield,  and  the  acres  were  rich  and 
yellow  with  the  ripe  grain.  The  golden  showers 
fell  like  a  garment  rustling  to  the  knees  of 
beauty,  and  from  fence  to  fence  ran  the  shout 
of  the  merry  toilers.  In  and  out  through  the 
sheaves  the  gleaners  ducked  and  rose  with 
brimming  hands.  Robin  worked  alone  in  a 
half-reaped  field  paved  with  sparkling  stubble. 
He  had  tied  his  colored  handkerchief  about  his 
loins  and  Avore  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat. 
.  At  noon,  Mistress  Bell  came  out  from  the 
house    bearing   the   babe    in   her   arms.      She 


The  Two  Babes.  233 

walked  down  among  the  harvest-home,  raising 
the  little  one  up  to  see  the  fields  and  the  reapers 
and  the  bright  sun  above  them.  The  little  man 
crowed  with  delight  and  waved  his  hands,  blink- 
ing with  blue  eyes  at  the  sun.  He  smiled  and 
leaped  for  all  the  world  like  a  stray  sunbeam 
flickering  about  his  mother's  breast.  As  fate  de- 
creed, the  good- wife  walked  down  to  the  very  spot 
where  Eobin  was  bending  at  his  work  in  the 
grain.  Love  and  joy,  and  pride  in  the  happy 
harvest,  had  almost  made  her  bonny  that  day. 
Just  as  she  reached  the  place  where  Eobin  stood, 
a  clamor  of  men  in  loud  and  fierce  contention 
rose  in  the  neighboring  field.  Half  surprised 
and  half  curious,  she  carefully  placed  the  child 
on  a  heap  of  fallen  wheat,  and  hastened  as  fast 
as  her  old  legs  could  run  to  look  over  the  low 
hedge  that  divided  the  fields. 

As  fortune  planned  it,  she  had  laid  the  bairn 
very  close  to  Eobin,  and  peeping  under  the 
sheaves  of  wheat,  too  wee  to  harbor  malice, 
it  saw  the  stalwart  reaper ;  laughed  and  blinked 
its  blue  eyes,  stretched  out  its  plump  pink  hands, 
and  cried  aloud.  It  would  have  tumbled  out  of 
its  yellow  bed  had  Eobin  not  thrown  his  tools 
aside  and  ran  over  to  help  it. 

"  I'll  watch  it  till  Mistress  Bell  comes  back, 
and  that  may  help  to  heal  up  the  old  offence," 
thought  Eobin. 

20* 


234  Tales  from  Ten  Poets, 

The  baby  lay  still,  blinking  sagely,  as  if  it 
knew  the  doubt  in  the  mind  of  this  gloomy 
man  whose  hollow  eyes  looked  half  afraid  of  it. 
Then  the  sunshine,  the  merry  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  harvest,  the  happy  light  and  peace,  and 
the  plenteous  gifts  of  autumn  mixed  with  the 
smiles  of  the  little  one  and  swam  in  a  serene 
vision  to  Eobin's  heart.  A  gush  hke  mother's 
milk  filled  that  heart,  warming  it  until  it  leaped 
for  fun.  Eobin  laughed  aloud  and  colored  crim- 
son. But  Mistress  Bell  still  stayed  gossiping 
across  the  hedge  with  some  one  she  knew,  and 
half  forgot  her  charge,  feeling  a  dim  conscious- 
ness that  it  was  safe. 

Was  Eobin  daft  or  drunk,  or  was  he  both  at 
once  ?  He  leaned  down  and  tickled  at  the  in- 
fant's throat  and  poked  the  dimples  in  its  chin, 
until  it  crowed  and  kicked  and  flung  its  arms 
about  and  jumped  for  joy.  Fairly  maddened 
with  a  reckless  pleasure,  this  holy  and  clever 
chiel,  this  big-boned  reaper,  Eobin  Anderson, 
caught  up  the  wean  and  tossed  it  in  the  air, 
rocked  it  in  his  arms  and  tousled  it  all  over.  A 
mother  in  her  teens  could  not  have  been  more 
tender  or  more  thoroughly  happy. 

In  the  midst  of  his  glee  Mistress  Bell  came 
back.  Eobin  did  not  see  her,  but  laughed  on, 
madly  tossing  the  screaming  bairn.  Suddenly 
he  turned  and  caught  her  eye. 


Tlie  Two  Babes.  235 

"  What,  Eobin !" 

The  reaper  held  up  the  babe,  blushing  with 
heat  and  shame.  He  eyed  it  sheepishly,  as  if 
doubtful  whether  to  keep  it  or  let  it  tumble. 
He  scraped  with  his  feet  in  a  helpless  way  and 
cast  down  his  eyes. 

Gasping  like  a  startled  hen,  Mistress  Bell  took 
the  child  from  him.  She  gave  Eobin  one  long 
look,  and  walked  away  stupefied.  The  very  Deil 
himself,  had  he  stolen  up  and  worked  a  miracle 
under  her  nose,  could  not  have  caused  her  more 
astonishment. 

Eobin  was  as  shamed  as  he  could  well  be. 
He  bound  sheaves  all  day  with  his  gloomy  eyes 
on  the  ground.  But  night  came  at  last.  The 
harvest  fell  asleep  under  the  stars,  and  the 
reapers  went  home.  Eobin  stayed  a  long  time 
outside  in  the  dark,  grumbling,  delaying,  and 
afraid  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  farm-women. 
Then,  partly  moved  by  hunger  and  partly  by 
pride,  he  strode  into  the  kitchen  with  a  big 
defiant  lounge.  The  laborers  were  there,  men 
and  women  both,  dipping  into  the  porridge- 
bowl  with  wooden  spoons.  Between  the  knees 
of  a  strapping  girl  was  Master  Matthew  Bell, 
the  son  and  heir  of  the  house.  Mistress  Bell 
was  not  present. 

When  the  child  saw  Eobin  Anderson,  he  crowed 
aloud,  kicked  and  laughed  and  tumbled  across 


236  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  maiden's  knee.  Before  Eobin  knew  it  he 
was  at  the  bairn's  side  tickling  and  tousling  him. 
He  seemed  urged  on  to  the  sport  in  defiance  of 
the  inward  prompting  against  it.  He  cast  his 
eyes  around  now  and  then  with  a  quick  resent- 
ment ;  but  there  was,  nevertheless,  an  untold 
sweetness  at  his  heart. 

Every  one  in  the  room  stared  at  him,  but  no 
one  said  a  word.  Laughing  eyes  sparkled  across 
at  each  other,  and  wondering  looks  passed  about. 
Robin's  frenzy  grew  till  the  little  treble  and  the 
big  haw  haw — like  a  giant  and  a  gnome  at 
play — rang  merrily  out  above  all  other  sounds. 

After  that  night  no  better  friends  could  be 
found  than  Robin  and  the  wean.  But  stranger 
still  was  it  that  Robin  seemed  to  have  learned 
in  that  one  night  the  art  of  pleasing  the  child, 
of  holding  it  in  his  arms  and  hushing  it  asleep. 
The  bridge  once  passed,  he  cared  little  what  he 
did  or  said  to  it.  Even  under  the  eyes  of  Mis- 
tress Bell  and  Matthew  he  would  feel  no  more 
shame  in  sporting  with  it  than  with  a  new-yeaned 
lamb.  The  farmer  and  his  wife  were  pleased, 
and  the  ice  thawed ;  and  so  time  wore  on  till 
harvest  came  again  and  was  gone. 

But  big  Robin's  heart  was  ill  at  ease.  The 
snake  still  nestled  there,  and  seemed  to  soil  his 
ver}'  tongue  with  its  venom.  He  went  offcener 
to  Edinglass  now,  and  at  home  he  brightened 


The  Two  Babes.  237 

only  when  his  friend  was  by.  On  Sabbath  he 
was  the  first  at  kirk,  but  with  a  gloomy  face 
and  gear  of  soot-black. 

But  when  the  harvest  was  over  the  child 
of  Matthew's  old  age  fell  sick,  and  the  farm  took 
on  its  wonted  silence.  The  doctors  came,  and 
a  weak  crying  was  heard  in  the  night.  Matthew 
was  mad  and  Mistress  Bell  in  tears ;  but  nobody 
paid  any  heed  to  Eobin,  who  would  sit  by  the 
fire,  glowering  at  the  coals  and  listening  with  a 
hungry  ear  to  those  who  stole  through  the  house 
on  tiptoe.  Once  he  crept  without  shoes  into 
the  sleeping  room  where  the  bairn  lay,  and  saw 
the  pale  little  head  on  its  mother's  lap.  He 
looked,  but  could  not  speak.  A  scalding  heat 
came  up  in  his  throat.  He  stammered  and 
blushed ;  but  when  he  turned  away  his  face  was 
ghastly  white.     What  did  he  feel  and  think? 

Perhaps  his  thought  was  something  like  this : 
"  If  I  were  wedded  and  had  such  a  child,  and  it 
should  die  for  lack  of  such  love  as  I  could  give 
it,  would  all  the  gold  and  silver  in  the  world 
ever  wipe  its  piteous  face  from  my  soul  ?  Would 
all  the  prayers  of  a  lifetime  drown  its  dying  cry 
in  the  hearing  of  the  Lord  ?" 

At  last  the  little  one  fell  asleep,  and  was 
dressed  for  the  grave  in  its  white  Sabbath 
clothes.  Old  Matthew  stumped  about  the  house 
groaning  deeply,  grim   elder    though   he  was. 


238  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Mistress  Bell  wept  silently  and  bitterly,  with  a 
grief  that  gave  her  quaint  and  homely  face 
a  double  solemness.  Again  and  again  she 
kissed  the  frosty  little  lips,  and  smoothed  the 
clothes  on  the  white  limbs  to  make  them  look 
sweeter. 

In  the  silent  hush  of  the  noonday,  Eobin 
crept  on  tiptoe  to  the  chamber  where  the  child 
lay.  He  touched  the  tiny  hands  and  looked  into 
the  baby-face.  Death  had  filled  it  with  shadows 
as  ancient  as  the  leaves  over  Adam's  garden. 
He  gazed  as  one  landing  after  years  at  sea 
might  gaze  on  a  flower  reminding  him  of  the 
meadows  where  he  played  when  he  was  a  boy. 
He  did  not  weep.  Two  dewy  rings  swam  around 
his  eyes,  and,  in  a  dream,  he  seemed  to  hear  an 
infant  crying  far  off,  and  to  see  two  little  hands 
lifted  up  from  beneath  his  knees  to  pull  him 
down  for  a  kiss.  So  he  crept  away  unseen  and 
unheard,  for  he  hated  the  silence  of  the  house 
and  longed  to  break  it  with  a  shriek. 

For  seven  days  the  child  had  slept  under  the 
grass,  and  now  the  snow  was  falling.  Eobin 
rode  away  to  Edinglass  on  business  of  his  own. 
He  stayed  four  days ;  but  Matthew,  so  deep  was 
his  sorrow,  scarcely  heeded  his  absence. 

One  morning  as  the  old  farmer  stood  at  the 
threshold  of  the  farm-house,  he  saw  a  gig  come 
trotting  up  the  road  drawn  by  his  own  piebald 


The  Two  Babes.  ■    239 

pony.  In  the  gig  sat  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
team  came  on  and  halted  at  the  door. 

With  a  cry  of  wonder,  even  of  fear,  Matthew 
saw  that  the  man  who  drove  was  Robin  Ander- 
son, and  that  the  woman  who  sat  beside  him, 
with  a  child  tucked  softly  beneath  her  Paisley 
shawl,  was  his  own  sinful  daughter  Maggie. 
Both  were  pale  and  dropped  their  eyes ;  but 
Eobin's  teeth  were  firmly  set  together.  Matthew 
could  not  speak  a  single  word. 

Robin  helped  the  lass  to  the  ground  and  led 
her  up  to  the  door.  Matthew  gave  way  before 
them  and  walked  backward  into  the  house. 

"  What's  this  ?"  he  gasped.  "  Is  it  daft  ye  are  ? 
And  have  you  forgotten  ?"  His  eyes  glittered 
on  Maggie  with  a  kind  of  ghastly  pain. 

Robin  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  pushed 
him  into  the  kitchen.  "Wheesht  awhile,"  said 
he,  "  wheesht  awhile,  and  hear  me  out."  Then  he 
went  on  with  his  story :  "  May  Clootie  grip  me, 
Matthew,  but  I  have  been  a  villain  and  a  hypo- 
crite, both  in  kirk  and  here,  as  friend  and  servant. 
It  was  me  brought  Meg  to  sorrow ;  but  I  stand  here 
to  take  shame  to  myself — and,  Meg's  my  wife !" 

The  farmer  stared  and  gasped  and  clutched 
at  the  air  with  his  hands,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Father!"  groaned  Maggie. 

He  eyed  her  hungrily  as  if  he  would  wither 
her,  but  made  no  answer. 


240  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"I  take  shame  to  myself,  and  Meg's  my 
honest  wife,"  said  Eobin  ;  "  and  if  your  heart  is 
shut  against  us,  why,  the  world's  wide  and  we 
can  go  away  and  work.  But  if  you  care  for 
the  lamb  you  have  just  laid  beneath  the  kirk- 
yard  sod,  forgive  poor  Maggie  for  his  sake. 
Come,  I'm  here  to  take  the  shame,  and  Meg's 
my  wife !" 

Again  Maggie  cried,  "Father!" 

She  drew  back  her  shawl  as  she  spoke,  show-" 
ing  a  child  asleep  on  her  breast.     It  was  a  pic- 
ture of  the  other  child.      It  wakened  at  her 
voice,  and  cried  and  kicked  to  run  on  its  rosy 
feet. 

Either  Matthew  bethought  him  of  a  slip  he 
had  himself  once  made  when  he  was  warm  and 
young,  or  more  likely  he  realized  that  it  would 
cost  him  overdear  to  part  with  Eobin.  for  when 
Maggie  set  down  the  wean  and  it  toddled  over 
and  peeped  into  his  face,  laughing  and  pulling 
at  his  watch-chain,  the  grim  elder  melted  and 
gave  in. 

When  Mistress  Bell  came  creeping  down  to 
the  kitchen  after  a  while,  she  saw  Maggie  and 
instantly  screamed,  then  lifted  up  her  hands  and 
groaned  dismally.  Old  Matthew  turned  on  her 
with  sudden  wrath  and  cut  her  short.  He 
never  looked  at  Maggie's  face,  but  bade  Eobin 
take  a  seat  and  talk  it  over. 


The  Two  Babes.  241 

"When  Hugh  Baird's  story  had  reached  this 
point  he  lifted  his  glass  for  another  bumper. 

"  That's  all,  sir,"  said  he  to  the  attentive 
stranger.  "  A  child  could  guess  the  rest.  Mat- 
thew, of  course,  came  round,  and  his  wife  was 
forced  to  give  a  dutiful  nod  of  assent.  Robin 
had  saved  and  scraped  through  all  the  years  of 
his  service  at  the  farm,  and  he  bought  a  piece 
of  Matthew's  land,  where  Maggie  and  her  boy 
settled  down  with  him  for  good.  It  was  all 
false  about  Maggie's  evil  life  in  Edinglass.  But 
it's  the  truth,  sir,  that  Robin  has  forsworn 
hypocrisy,  and  that  his  comely  wife  and  Mis- 
tress Bell  meet  amicably  every  Sabbath  and 
every  Sabbath  quarrel  and  part  forever.  But, 
oh,  to  see  the  dreadful  change  the  years  have 
brought  Eobin !  He  is  well-to-do ;  has  other 
weans  beside  the  little  elbow-slip,  —  that's 
not  singular  either; — but,  sir,  he's  fat.  He's 
been  known  to  go  to  sleep  in  kirk ;  and  some- 
times in  this  very  parlor,  Sandie's  parlor!  it 
would  thrill  your  heart  to  hear  him  sing  '  Corn 
Rigs'  or '  Tullochgorum.'  "  The  speaker  drained 
his  glass  and  smacked  his  lips.  "Well,  I've 
done,"  said  he;  "  no  more  to-day, — unless  you'd 
like  to  see  me  fu'.  I've  a  good  way  to  walk, — 
and  you  know  it's  the  Sabbath." 

END   OF   THE   SECOND   BOOK. 
II.— L  q  21 


THE  THIRD  BOOK. 


TR! 


.A^A'A\\tt:A¥*<v,    cA-NVkVW-)    AO^ATiAO.W 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


TRISTRAM   OF  LYONESSE. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


TRISTRAM  OF  LYONESSE. 


About  the  mid-days  of  spring  there  came 
from  the  castle-built  shores  of  Ireland  a  fair 
ship,  which  sailed  southeastwardly  for  Wales. 
It  passed  Lyonesse  and  Carlion,  now  hidden  in 
the  deep  tides,  and  tacked  onward  to  the  windy 
heights  of  Tintagol.  Above  its  stem  shone  a 
gilded  swallow,  with  straight  wings,  and  eyes 
made  of  glittering  gems,  which  seemed  flying 
oversea  to  bear  the  green  summer  with  it  through 
the  air. 

On  the  deck,  at  dawn,  between  the  rowers, 
sat  Iseult,  gazing  with  full  face  at  the  gradually 
strengthening  light.  She  was  fairer  than  foam 
or  dawn.  Her  look  was  very  glad,  and  her  face 
was  lovelier  than  any  love  could  desire.  Her 
movements  were  past  thought  and  speech,  and 
her  hair  was  more  golden  than  the  sunrise. 
Her  bright  flesh  was  made  as  of  moonbeams, 
and  her  eyelids  shone  like  snow  beneath  the 
sun,  while  through  their  clouds  of  deep  lashes 

9 


10  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

welled  up  the  springs  of  unimaginable  eyes. 
Her  lips  were  meek  and  passionate,  for  love  sat 
upon  them  like  a  shadow.  The  glad,  clear  cheeks 
and  throat,  and  the  tender  temples,  had  a  maiden 
blush  upon  them  such  as  a  lily  might  show  if  a 
rose's  blood  beat  in  its  heart.  From  slight  foot 
to  slender  head,  the  whole  fair  form  swayed  like 
a  flower,  and  whatever  her  light  hand  leaned 
on  grew  scented  with  blossoms. 

Gazing  at  Iseult  was  a  sunlike  face,  which 
to  her,  through  all  the  wreck  and  change  of 
time,  was  to  be  the  star  of  her  living  soul. 
Love  had  not  yet  written  his  language  in  its 
lineaments.  It  was  smooth  and  mighty,  with- 
out a  scar,  for  the  youth  had  nothing  of  grief 
about  him  saving  his  name,  which  his  mother, 
dying  as  he  was  born,  made  out  of  her  sorrow 
and  chose  for  him  even  as  his  young  eyes  smiled 
upon  her.  His  name  was  Tristram ;  and  now, 
clothed  with  youth  and  might,  he  bore  it  as  a 
glad  witness,  the  second  symbol  of  the  world's 
fame. 

Ti'istram  was  renowned  and  of  good  fortune, 
and  in  his  face  shone  a  lordship  of  joy.  He 
moved  through  the  morning  like  the  morning 
itself  Song  sprang  from  his  lips  and  from 
under  his  harp-playing  hands.  The  maidens 
who  gazed  on  his  fervent  fingers  as  they  swept 
the  strings,  thought  how  often  they  had  borne 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  11 

part  in  the  dark  onset  of  war ;  how  often  those 
lips,  whereon  the  song  now  burned,  had  flung 
battle-cries  above  the  swing  and  shriek  of  the 
swords.  And  the  memory  of  the  unhappy 
queen  to  whom  his  life  had  been  death,  made 
their  love  sadder  and  stronger  towards  him. 

Now  in  the  changing  accidents  of  time  and 
fight,  chance  had  cast  this  fair  youth  on  the 
green  Irish  land,  which  the  sky  and  sea  love 
and  wrap  round  as  with  hands  and  wings. 
There  in  a  lucky  hour  he  came  to  the  king's 
court,  and  dwelt  for  half  a  season  harping  in 
the  hall,  and  teaching  the  new  craft  of  music 
to  maiden  hands  that  for  his  sake  are  famous 
in  all  countries.  Yet  there  was  no  love  between 
them,  for  their  fate  awaited  its  appointed  hour, 
and  showed  neither  bloom  nor  sting.  But  once, 
being  vexed  with  some  past  wound,  the  king 
bade  Tristram  take  comfort  of  sweet  baths, 
and  for  his  honor  bade  Iseult  watch  him  as 
his  hand-maiden,  and  ease  his  hurt  with  holy 
remedies  which  were  made  by  her  mother's 
magic. 

"When  Iseult  saw  the  shape  of  the  wound  in 
his  side,  she  knew  that  this  was  the  knight  who 
had  overthrown  all  their  prowess  and  left  her 
kinsmen  shamed  on  the  field  of  battle.  She 
would  have  slain  Tristram,  unarmed  as  he  was, 
with  his  own  sword,  but  he  seemed  so  great  and 


12  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

fair  that  her  heaved-up  hand  fell,  and  she  did 
not  smite  him. 

"  What  comfort  shall  this  dead  man  be  to 
you,  Damsel  ?"  said  he,  laughing.  "  Set  not  your 
hand  near  the  toothed  steel,  lest  the  fang  strike 
it." 

"Yea,  should  the  fang  not  strike  dead  the 
serpent  that  stung  my  uncle?"  she  answered. 
"  You  are  his  slayer,  and  half  my  mother's  heart 
is  bloodless  through  you,  who  made  the  veins 
of  all  her  kin  bleed  through  his  wounds." 

Then  she  bethought  her  how  their  violent 
chief  had  flung  forth  the  bold  word  which  chal- 
lenged Arthur's  best  knight  to  do  battle  ;  and 
how,  dying  of  his  own  wild  mood,  he  had  set 
upon  his  conqueror's  flesh  the  seal  of  his  unhal- 
lowed brand,  the  venom  and  enchanted  might 
of  which  had  left  the  sign  on  Tristram's  side. 
She  stood  reflecting  on  these  things,  and  her 
wrath  grew  cool  with  her  thoughts.  Hatred 
could  not  long  keep  its  fire  kindled  against  him 
who  lay  there  at  her  mercy.  She  passed  softly 
from  his  sight. 

After  this,  peace  was  made  between  them,  and, 
through  them,  between  two  kingdoms.  He 
went  home  with  hands  reconciled  and  a  con- 
tented heart  to  bring  about  a  truce  between  her 
father's  realm  and  the  land  of  Cornwall;  and 
when  full  peace  was  at  last  made,  he  fared  forth 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  13 

again  by  the  green  straits  to  bring  back  Iseult 
as  the  plighted  bride  of  his  uncle  Mark,  the 
king. 

So  now  with  feast  made  and  all  the  triumphs 
of  parting  done,  Tristram  and  Iseult  sailed  east- 
ward. But  the  queen,  her  mother,  in  her  wise 
heart  and  subtle  love,  had  foreseen  the  things 
that  were  to  be,  darkly  as  in  a  glass,  and  to 
prevent  them,  had  striven  to  make  some  charm 
of  marriage  unison  which  should  bind  the  heart 
of  Iseult  securely  to  her  lord.  She  wrought 
with  marvellous  herbs  and  spells,  brewing  and 
blessing  the  mixture  secretly  with  her  hands. 
Then  she  drew  it  from  her  bosom  and  gave 
it  to  Iseult's  chosen  hand-maiden,  Brangwain. 
She  bade  her  hide  the  marvel,  covered  up  in  a 
golden  cup,  from  the  sight  of  all  men,  and 
when  the  last  shout  had  died  away  and  the  last 
cup  was  drained  about  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom as  they  were  bound  for  bed,  then  should 
Brangwain  say  to  the  new-married  bride  that 
her  mother,  the  queen,  commanded  her  to  drink 
the  cup  in  union  with  King  Mark.  For  her 
sake,  no  lip  must  touch  it  but  theirs.  It  was 
hallowed  for  their  mouths  alone,  and  if  a  drop 
was  lost,  Iseult  should  hold  that  drop  as  dear  as 
blood  shed  from  her  mother's  heart.  Having 
drunk,  the  two  should  be  one  heart  forever. 
Brangwain  swore  to  do  this,  and  kept  the  hid- 

2 


14  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

den  thing  by  her  always,  whether  she  waked  or 
slept. 

Now,  all  this  having  passed,  Iseult  and  Tris- 
tram sat  on  the  deck  to  see  the  sun  rise  again, 
whose  light  had  looked  on  no  such  pair  since 
Galahault,  at  rose-time,  had  brought  Launcelot 
first  to  see  Guenevere. 

Tristram  caught  her  eyes  as  she  looked  across 
at  the  dawn. 

"  As  the  new  day  brings  daylight  up  fi-om  the 
dead,  might  not  this  face  also  bring  the  dead 
back  to  life  ?"  he  murmured. 

"  I  pray  you  do  not  praise  me,  but  tell  me 
who  there  in  Camelot  has  the  name  of  being 
fairest  next  to  the  queen?"  She  asked  this 
gazing  where  the  sea  was  wan  beyond  the  sun's 
path.  "  I  would  I  were  a  man  and  dwelt  there, 
that  I  might  win  better  praise  than  yours, — 
even  such  as  you  yourself  have ;  for  your  praise 
lasts,  but  ours, — for  shame,  where  is  it  ?  Tell  me, 
then,  since  women  may  not  win  a  better  praise, 
who  has  the  most  renown  beside  Guenevere?" 

Tristram  held  in  the  laugh  he  would  have 
uttered. 

"  Surely  this  is  but  a  little  praise  to  desire," 
he  said,—"  poor  and  little.  But  of  the  hapless 
ones  whom  love  serves  with  bowed  knees,  none 
hath  ftiirer  face  than  Arthur's  sister.  The  north 
seas  call  her  Mistress  of  Isles.     She  moves  even 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  15 

yet  majestically  above  the  crowns  on  younger 
heads,  and  her  eyes  outshine  all  later-born  loves." 

"  Is  she  taller  than  I  ?"  asked  Iseult.  "  Look,  I 
am  tall !"  She  struck  the  mast  with  the  utmost 
reach  of  her  hand.  "  And  look,  fair  lord,  now, 
when  I  rise  upon  my  feet,  how  high  I  can  touch 
standing  straight  up.  Could  this  queen  do  so 
much  as  that?  She  must  be  overtall,  then. 
Can  it  be  that  she  is  second  in  stateliness,  where 
there  are  so  many  younger  who  are  fair, — she, 
born  before  the  lord  your  king,  and  having  the 
third  knight  after  Launcelot  and  you  to  serve 
her  ?  Nay,  sir,  God  made  her,  then,  for  a  god- 
like sign." 

"  Ay,  for  a  sign,"  answered  Tristram.  "  Would 
God  it  were  not  so !  for  the  planets  never  shine 
with  half  the  fateful  forecasting  of  her  unfor- 
tunate face." 

A  smile  rose  to  Iseult's  mouth  :  "  I  am  all  the 
happier  to  have  a  face  that  brings  men  no  such 
fate,"  quoth  she.  "  Yet  all  of  us  who  are  born 
after  her  may  praise  her  for  good  hap.  She 
excels  us  no  more  in  age  than  in  men's  love." 

"  God  keep  you  better  in  his  grace  than  to  sit 
down  beside  her !"  said  Tristram,  with  a  gloom- 
ing light  in  his  eyes.  "  For  if  men  are  not 
wholly  blind  whom  God  gives  light  to,  and 
those  do  not  lie  to  whom  he  gives  truth,  great 
grief  shall   come   to  her,  and   she   shall  give 


16  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

greater.  Merlin  witnessed  of  her  years  ago 
that  she  should  work  and  suffer  woe  beyond  all 
the  race  of  women.  And  yet  her  face  takes  the 
sense  of  men  like  a  sunbeam.  I  think  there  is 
no  herb  or  blood-compelling  drink  that  would 
heal  a  heart  ever  made  hot  by  it.  Ay,  and  men 
that  do  not  love  her  make  no  great  marvel 
when  they  see  the  love  between  her  and  La- 
moracke ;  nor  do  they  look  askance  when  he 
gazes  after  her.  Clothed  warmly  with  his  love 
as  she  is,  girded  round  with  his  worship,  yet 
she  seems  at  heart  hungry  and  cold.  She  is 
ever  sad,  and  loves  not  the  light,  for  as  night, 
whether  clothed  with  stars  or  naked,  is  still 
night,  so  is  she  still  sad." 

Iseult's  sweet  eyes  were  sunken,  and  the  mirth 
was  dead  in  her  look. 

"  Is  it  her  shame  for  something  done,  or  fear 
of  something  yet  to  be  done,  that  so  puts  out 
the  light  from  her  soul?"  she  asked. 

"  Surely,"  answered  Tristram,  "  I  think  it  is 
some  blind  and  unknown  sin  done  when  the 
summer  flowed  in  her  blood, — the  season  when 
a  sudden  wrong  wrought  out  of  vision  and  of 
desire  leaps  into  life  and  never  dies.  Then 
came  swift  eyesight  that  touched  the  dark  thing 
to  death  and  made  her  mad  with  helpless  knowl- 
cdtre.  She  knew  what  a  sore  life  dead  love 
must  lead  her  through,  and  to  what  sure  end ; 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  17 

and  though  her  way  has  neither  been  sprinkled 
with  blood  nor  her  tears,  and  though  she  looks 
bravely,  with  her  face  fixed  upon  fate,  yet  she 
knows  well  the  serpent  hour  lies  ready  some- 
where to  sting  and  spare  not ;  ay,  and  he,  Ar- 
thur  " 

"  The  king,"  cried  Iseult, — "  does  the  king,  too, 
live  in  fear  ?  They  say  sin  does  not  hurt  a  man 
80  much  as  shame  a  woman  ;  yet  he  also  should 
take  part  of  the  penance,  being  more  deeply  set 
in  the  sin  than  she." 

"JSTay,"  said  Tristram,  "it  fell  by  wicked 
hap  that  he  sinned  no  more  than  youth  may 
and  be  forgiven  of  God.  In  his  first  year  of 
rule,  as  he  stood,  with  his  foemen  slain  and  flushed 
with  hope,  there  came  greeting  and  homage  from 
King  Lot  out  of  his  islands  oversea.  Arthur 
greeted  him  as  his  good  lord  and  bade  him  to 
his  high  feast,  and  King  Lot  came  thither,  bring- 
ing Queen  Morgause  of  Orkney,  his  wife.  She 
was  in  the  green  May -time  of  her  years,  and 
our  king's  years  were  scarce  in  April.  He  was 
the  goodliest  of  all  men,  and  knew  not  yet  of 
what  race  he  came.  But  King  Lot  was  as  cold 
as  autumn  rains  and  grown  gray  out  of  season. 
There  sprang  a  swift  love  between  Arthur  and 
the  queen,  though  no  one  knew,  until  too  late, 
the  bond  of  blood  that  connected  them.  They 
were  of  two  fathers  but  one  mother,  and  Mer- 
III.— 6  2* 


18  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

lin  set  forth  the  thing,  and  broke  the  seal  of 
Arthur's  birth  and  showed  his  ruin.  But  come 
shine  or  shade  his  name  shall  be  one  with  all 
knightliness,  though  his  age  shall  bear  the  bur- 
dens of  his  youth.  For,  indeed,  blind  to  him, 
his  sister  brought  forth  seed,  and,  of  this  child 
shall  be  born,  destruction." 

Iseult  was  much  moved  and  marvelled  greatly. 

"  Great  pity  it  is,"  she  said,  "  God  could  not 
do  them  as  much  right  as  we,  who  do  not  slay 
men  for  committing  witless  evil." 

She  sighed,  and  looked  up  from  the  waves  to 
the  clouds,  seeing  the  day  spring  upright  on  the 
water.  The  sea  shone  with  radiance,  and  a  low, 
sweet  gale  shook  the  foam  that  fluttered  around 
the  prow.  The  moon  withered  to  westward, 
and  air  and  light  and  wave  all  seemed  full  of 
a  burning  rest. 

Iseult's  heart  sprang  within  her,  and  she  drew 
the  sunrise  and  the  keen,  triumphant  air  through 
her  lips  with  all  her  spirit.  She  felt  the  sover- 
eign morning  sink  into  her  soul  and  the  dawn 
cleave  through  the  sweet  veil  of  her  body.  All 
her  May-day  blood  flushed  as  from  a  swoon. 
She  turned  and  smiled  with  half  summer  in  her 
eyes,  and  April  still  on  her  lips,  for  spirit  and 
sense  being  at  war  within  her  shrank  laugh- 
ingly back,  and  would  not  let  life  put  forth  its 
full  flower  before  the  prince. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  19 

Then  the  soft  speech  grew  between  them  again. 
They  questioned  of  the  mightiest  warriors  and 
of  what  names  shone  with  most  renown  in  love 
and  fight.  Tristram  spoke  of  many  noble  things 
done  at  King  Arthur's  court,  and  told  the  tale 
of  all  his  great  knights  and  fair  women. 

Then  said  Iseult,  "  Let  each  knight  have  his 
meed  of  praise,  and  each  good  man  witness  of 
his  worth  ;  but  when  men  laud  the  second  name 
on  earth,  whom  should  they  praise  as  the  equal 
of  him  whose  love  glorifies  queen  Guenevere  ?" 

"  Nay,"  said  Tristram,  "  there  is  no  such  man." 

"  What !"  said  she,  "  there  is  none  such  among 
all  the  earth's  living  ?  Yet  I'  deemed  men  spoke 
of  one — but  maybe  they  dreamed,  fools  and 
babblers! — one  that  for  all  high  things  was 
worthiest,  saving  the  one  highest,  to  be  loved 
and  love." 

"  Little  wit  had  they,  then,"  said  Tristram, "  for 
there  is  no  such  man  in  the  world." 

"Ay,  on  land,"  quoth  Iseult,  "there  is  none 
such,  nor  where  the  fighting  folk  are ;  but  were 
there  really  no  such  one  between  sea  and  sky, 
the  world  were  poorer  than  I  thought." 

Tristram  took  her  white  hand  and  kissed  it, 
laughing  the  while,  and  the  blood  lightened  in 
shame  through  his  fair  face. 

"  Do  they  truly  hear  no  such  name  ?"  she 
asked,  with  gentle  persistence. 


20  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  If  it  be  80,  I  wot  the  poor  harper  to  the 
queen  has  not  heard  it,"  he  said.  Then  he  took 
up  his  harp  and  helped  to  speed  the  way  with 
song. 

"  Nay,"  said  Iseult,  when  he  had  done,  "  your 
song  is  hard  to  read." 

"Ay,  or  too  light  to  notice,"  said  he,  and 
sang  again  a  warm  and  passionate  love-ditty. 

Iseult  mused  upon  the  words  and  said  noth- 
ing. She  was  thinking  of  the  sweet  wonder  of 
two  made  one  in  love,  and  love  laid  its  hand 
on  her  so  strong  that  she  yearned  for  the  day 
when  she  should  see  his  face.  But  Tristi'am, 
with  clear,  strong  eyes,  and  sweet-hearted  as  a 
bird,  aroused  her  with  glad  words  and  songs, 
till  she  was  as  blithe  and  high  of  heart  as  he. 

But  as  the  Swallow  swam  onward  through 
the  sea,  there  came  a  light  wind  out  of  the  east 
which  strengthened  as  it  blew.  The  sky  black- 
ened, and  the  waters  began  to  thrill  with  storm. 
The  green  waves  hardened  into  iron-blue,  and 
their  soft  light  went  out. 

Tristram  took  an  oarsman's  place  and  toiled 
mightily,  seated  full  in  the  east  wind.  All  the 
rowers  pulled  hard,  but  he  more  lustily  than 
any  three  of  them.  Iseult  watched  him  with 
eyes  that  knew  no  sin.  She  loved  him  only  in 
girlish  wise,  taking  a  noble  joy  in  his  fair  man- 
liness.    Nevertheless,  she  thought  if  God  had 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  21 

given  her  the  grace  to  be  a  man,  she  would 
have  liked  to  be  as  this  one ;  for  his  stroke  grew 
mightier  as  the  waters  broke  higher. 

They  fought  the  storm  for  an  hour,  till  the 
east  wind  fell,  breath  by  breath,  and  the  sun's 
face  sprang  forth  again  across  the  slackening 
rain.  Then  they  all  rested  and  took  ease  of 
heart,  and  Iseult  rose  up  from  where  she  sat, 
and  cast  from  her  the  furs  and  subtle  embroid- 
eries that  wrapped  her  from  the  storm.  Her 
hair  and  face  were  dashed  with  the  salt  spray, 
and  she  seemed  to  stand  the  first  of  all  the 
world's  flowers. 

"  I  too  took  heart ;  I  was  not  afraid,"  she  said, 
laughing,  to  Tristram. 

He  made  some  courteous  answer,  and  saw 
her  face  grow  light  as  it  looked  on  his  for  the 
last  time  with  unenamoured  eyes.  He  gave  her 
look  for  look  and  knew  not  what  it  meant,  and 
she  also  knew  not.  It  was  the  last  time, — the 
last  that  should  ever  be  told  of  anywhere  by 
those  who  should  sing  of  them, — the  last  hour 
of  rest  for  their  un wounded  hearts, — the  last  of 
peace,  and  they  knew  it  not. 

Tristram  was  tired  with  his  toil  and  thirsted. 
"  Iseult,"  he  said,  "  for  dear  love's  sake  give 
me  a  drink,  and  for  a  pledge,  the  touch  of  four 
lips  on  the  beaker-brim." 

Iseult  looked  up  and  down  and  would  not 


22  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

wake  Brangwain,  who  slept  as  if  she  were  half 
dead  with  fear.  With  hushed  steps  and  great 
pity  the  lady  went  round  her.  She  was  a  sweet- 
spirited  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  kindly  king. 
As  Iseult  gazed  on  her  she  spied  the  secret 
charge  kept  close  in  the  girl's  bosom.  She  drew 
the  golden  cup  forth  smiling  and  marvelling  at 
it.  Then  she  bore  it  back  to  Tristram,  and  held 
out  the  love-draught  that  should  be  a  fire  to 
burn  all  shame  and  faith  and  fear  out  of  them 
and  make  them  forever  sad. 

Tristram  bowed  towards  her,  and  craved  to 
know  whence  this  strange  thing  had  come.  It 
seemed  the  spoil  of  some  Asian  ruler  stolen  by 
starlight  from  a  waste  place  in  the  sands,  and 
yet  here  a  maid  bore  it  harmlessly  in  her  hands. 

Iseult  laughed  at  his  wonder. 

"  Other  lords  feast,"  she  said,  "  and  their  men 
feast  after  them ;  but  with  us,  the  men  keep 
back  the  best  wine  for  their  own  feasting,  and 
we  feed  after  them.  So  it  is  with  my  handmaid 
and  your  squire.  They  have  hid  this  thing  from 
us  for  their  own  delight."  Then,  with  hands 
that  knew  not  they  were  digging  a  grave,  she 
undid  the  hasps  of  gold  and  drank  from  the  cup ; 
and  after  she  had  taken  her  fill  she  gave  it  to 
Tristram,  who  also  drank  a  deep,  kingly  draught. 

And  suddenly  all  their  life  was  changed  in 
them,  for  they  had  drunk  of  death. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  23 

His  eyes  filled  with  passion  and  dread.  He 
was  stung  at  heart  with  a  new  desire.  Turning, 
he  saw  a  strange  terror  in  Iseult's  eyes.  She 
yearned  towards  him  like  a  shining  star  fixed 
in  the  midnight. 

Thus  were  they  tempted.  Their  Galahault 
was  the  cup  and  she  who  mixed  it.  No  other 
hand  or  sweet  speech  was  needed  to  bring  their 
lips  together.  Each  hung  on  the  other  with 
unwonted  looks,  and  their  mouths  trembled  for 
a  word.  Their  heads  drew  near  together  and 
their  hands  were  joined.  Though  the  sun  shot 
fire  into  the  south  through  the  fine  rain,  they 
saw  only  darkness.  Their  lips  met  in  a  burning 
kiss. 

II. 

The  second  day  of  the  sailing  rose  out  of  the 
night,  and  the  ship's  bow  clove  the  shoreward 
waters.  Tristram  and  Iseult  stood  hand  in  hand 
on  the  deck,  with  eyes  dim  from  sweet  remem- 
brance of  their  new-made  love,  and  scarce  heed- 
ing the  fair  palace  whither  they  were  bound.  It 
stood  upon  the  summits  of  a  rocky  island,  riven 
from  the  shore  and  encircled  by  the  waves,  and 
sprang  high  into  the  morning.  Its  eastern  gate 
was  full  of  sunrise,  and  on  the  vast  stair  that 
climbed  sheer  up  from  the  sea  to  its  portal, 
stood  ranged  the  knights  of  King  Mark. 

When  the  bride  had  landed,  these  warriors 


24  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

brought  her  up  the  steep  way  with  loud  cries 
of  joy.  She  entered  the  strange  halls  where  the 
tidal  noises  forever  echoed.  Tower  shouldered 
tower  above  her  with  changing  floors  and  stories, 
and  flight  upon  flight  climbing  up  to  the  apex, 
whence  all  the  wide  east  and  west  were  stretched 
in  view. 

Midway  of  the  stairs,  before  the  main  tower's 
portal,  stood  King  Mark.  He  was  crowned, 
and  his  face  looked  as  if  he  had  long  been  hun- 
gering for  the  sun,  and  now  thought  to  feel  its 
blessing  on  his  brow.  He  was  a  swart,  lean 
man,  but  king-like,  with  a  black-streaked  beard 
and  cold,  unquiet  eyes.  Close-mouthed  he  was 
also,  and  gaunt-cheeked,  though  time  had  hardly 
strewn  her  first  ashes  on  his  worn  hair.  Little 
fire  burnt  within  him,  and  he  seemed  weary  of 
life's  wayfaring. 

He  stood  there  between  shade  and  sunlight, 
and  his  face  did  not  change,  nor  did  he  yearn 
towards  the  bride.  But  when  he  saw  her  full 
glory,  fear  and  shame  smote  him  to  take  her 
hand  and  kiss  her.  His  cold  face  flushed  with 
a  thin  flame,  and  he  led  her  silently  to  the  bridal 
altar. 

There  they  were  wedded  and  hallowed  by  the 
priest ;  but  through  all  the  time  of  feasting 
there  was  a  sole  burning  thought  within  three 
hearts  where  craft  took  counsel  with  desire. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  25 

When  the  feast  had  come  to  a  glorious  end  the 
new  queen  was  given  over  to  her  maids  at  the 
dawn  of  bride-night,  who  should  lead  her  to  the 
bridegroom.  But  Brangwain  went  to  him  and 
craftily  prayed  that,  for  love's  sake,  this  thing 
might  not  be ;  but  that  the  bride  might  come 
into  the  bride-bed  without  sound  or  light.  He 
laughed  as  one  who  knew  little  of  love's  ways, 
and  bade  the  handmaid  do  all  as  she  wished. 
But  he  got  little  return  for  his  gentleness,  for 
Brangwain  went,  clothed  like  a  bride,  softly  to 
3{^ing  Mark,  and  Tristram  came  to  the  queen. 

The  night  fled  on,  and  before  the  day  rose 
Brangwain  slipped  away  from  beside  the  sleep- 
ing king  and  Iseult  went  in  and  lay  beside  him. 
Waking  up,  he  saw  her  fair  red  face  and  the 
strange  golden  hair  loosed  across  the  pillows 
which  fired  the  hearts  of  men  with  love  and 
their  eyes  with  wonder. 

The  king  marvelled  at  her  glory. 

"  What  have  I  done  that  God  should  bless  me 
with  all  this  great  wealth  ?"  he  said  in  his  heart. 
"  Was  it  this  I  had  beside  me  all  night,  this  that 
seems  fairer  than  heaven  does  in  some  tired 
saint's  vision  ?  Have  I  not  sinned  to  have 
made  her  a  mere  man's  wife  ?" 

He  mused  and  murmm'ed  thus,  and  Iseult 
listened  to  the  faint  words  and  laughed  silently 
into  her  concealing  hair. 


26  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Many  a  fair  day  and  month  slipped  over  them 
like  music,  and  love's  offerings  burned  during 
many  a  secret  night.  Many  a  dawn,  too,  blew 
a  prelude  to  fiery  noons,  when  the  tune  of  the 
horn  woke  the  woods  with  sounds  of  mirth. 
For  Tristram  was  the  mightiest  huntsman  of 
all  the  land,  and  he  loved  to  ride  by  Iseult's 
rein,  whose  eyes  and  cheeks  grew  enkindled 
into  richer  beauty  with  the  chase  and  the  rapt- 
ure of  her  steed.  Yet  often  they  took  more 
joy  of  the  woodland  ways  than  came  of  the 
mad  life  of  the  hunt. 

But  once,  when  the  knight  had  ridden  away 
to  do  warfare  against  the  Christless  lands  on 
the  king's  northern  border,  there  came  upon  a 
secret  quest  to  Mark's  palace  of  Tintagle  an 
unknown  knight,  named  Palamede.  He  abode 
as  a  guest  with  the  king  in  the  likeness  of  a 
minstrel,  and  there  was  no  man  on  earth,  saving 
only  Tristram,  who  could  touch  the  strings  so 
sweetly. 

One  loud  and  blustry  evening,  before  set  of 
sun,  being  full  of  wine  and  mirth.  King  Mark 
swore  strongly  to  the  strange  minstrel  that,  for 
guerdon  of  his  voice  and  song,  he  might  crave 
of  him  what  he  desired.  Then  there  came  up 
the  swart  cheek  of  the  player  a  flash  of  deeper 
color,  and  the  sunken  eyes  laughed  triumphantly. 

"O    King,"  he  cried,  "I  crave  no  gift  that 


Tristram,  of  Lyonesse.  27 

you  may  give  a  slave,  but  only  your  crowned 
queen  and  wife.  Even  unseen  I  loved  her.  I 
set  my  life  on  this  one  poor  chance,  for  she  is 
famed  to  be  fairer  than  all  saving  Guenevere." 

Then,  like  the  noise  of  a  seaward  storm  that 
beats  the  rocks  with  roaring  laughter,  the  wrath 
and  wonder  of  the  knights  rang  through  the 
hollow  roof  But  the  king  held  his  peace  and 
glared  hard  upon  the  stranger. 

"  Man,"  he  said,  grimly,  "  though  your  craft 
be  dark  and  your  mind  evil,  yet  the  word  of  a 
king  once  plighted  stands  fast.  Albeit  it  were 
less  bitter  for  me  to  give  up  my  life  than  my 
wife,  yet  it  were  worse  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
man  to  live  shamed  with  broken  troth." 

The  king  bowed  down  and  wef>t,  and  all  his 
knights  wept  with  him  save  one ;  but  the  queen 
did  not  weep,  but  looked  statelier  than  ever  be- 
fore. 

She  rose,  and  her  heart  was  great  in  her  eyes. 
She  was  full  of  wrath  and  scorn  to  be  sent 
thence  from  comfort  and  her  natural  right. 

But  they  went  forth  into  the  darkness,  and 
rode  silently  by  wild  ways  a  long  journey.  Iseult 
felt  less  fear  than  Palamede,  for  he  was  con- 
strained by  awe  of  her.  He  yearned  towards 
her,  and  wondered  if  he  might  ever  win  her 
with  love  or  skill.  He  well  knew  that  forbear- 
ance would  gain  more  grace  from  that  sweet 


28  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

mouth  than  violent  kisses,  for  these  would  make 
his  name  abhorred  to  her. 

The  clouds  were  alternately  thinned  and 
thickened  by  the  short  gusts,  and  the  noise  of 
the  sea  moaned  along  the  darkness.  They  halted 
anon,  and  the  knight  treated  her  as  reverently 
as  if  she  were  his  sleeping  sister.  He  durst 
neither  kiss  her  nor  touch  her  hands  or  hair 
for  very  love  and  pity  of  her.  Shame  and  grief 
stung  him  to  the  heart. 

But  the  day  sprang  up  now,  and  they  heard 
the  echo  of  hurrying  hoofs  far  off  along  the 
waste.  Like  a  rushing  flame  a  single  rider  ap- 
proached. He  plunged  upon  them  headlong 
out  of  the  morning's  darkness,  and  they  saw 
that  it  was  Tristram. 

Palamede  leaped  up  upon  his  war-horse  ready 
to  do  battle,  and  they  lashed  together  with  a 
mighty  shock  of  horse  and  man. 

The  fight  began  lustily  as  the  sun  rose.  The 
strong  steeds  reeled  to  and  fro  with  haggard 
eyes.  Their  stout  heads  were  bent  down,  and 
their  knees  staggered  under  the  strain  of  on- 
set. The  spears  shocked  again  and  again  until 
they  splintered.  Then  each  knight  drew  his 
Bword,  and  fell  to  royally  with  flashing  blades. 
Once  they  drew  off",  and  with  tightened  rein  and 
deep  spur-stroke  bore  in  again  at  each  other. 
But  the  jarring  notes  of  the  fight  broke  off 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  29 

anon,  and  Palamede,  stunned,  fell  like  a  ruined 
main-mast  down  from  his  saddle  to  the  ground. 
The  lovers  left  him  where  he  had  fallen  and  rode 
lightly  away  through  the  green  lawns.  Not  far 
off  there  was  a  fair  bower  wrought  out  of 
boughs  for  love  to  rest  in,  and  there  Iseult  and 
Tristram  took  their  way.  When  they  had  come 
thither  they  refreshed  their  hearts  with  good 
cheer  in  hunter's  fashion  ;  and  it  seemed  to  them 
sweeter  to  tarry  there  and  give  farewell  to 
all  the  world's  weariness  than  to  reign  as  king 
and  queen. 

For  three  moons  they  dwelt  there  without 
thought  of  sorrow,  fostered  by  the  sweet  earth 
as  if  they  had  been  babes  reared  in  the  pathless 
forests.  The  sun  sprang  above  the  ocean  and 
the  stars  rose  and  sank,  and  they  lived  the  wise 
and  free  life  of  outlaws.  Eumor  of  death  and 
change  seemed  like  a  babbling  tale.  Tristram 
sang  songs  of  mockery  at  their  bitter  godhead, 
and  defied  time  to  blot  the  glad  life  out  of  love. 

Iseult  drank  deeply  of  the  warm  wine  of  his 
words,  for  he  knew  well  all  the  subtlest  ways 
of  song. 

Thus  they  fared,  without  a  cloud  to  darken 
their  delight.  Yet  in  very  wonder  that  such  a 
life  as  theirs  could  be,  they  began  to  be  haunted 
with  dreams  of  desire  and  death.  Tears  would 
mingle  with  the  passionate  laughter  in  their 

3* 


30  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

eyes,  and  they  uttered  wild  speech  in  their 
yearning  to  pass  beyond  the  boundary  of  time 
to  love's  final  eminence. 

III. 

Three  years  had  gone  by  since  Tristram 
looked  upon  Iseult.  He  was  weary  of  the  long 
separation,  and  sad  thoughts  swept  through  his 
spirit  as  leaves  through  the  autumnal  air.  His 
soul  lay  dead  within  him  like  a  corpse  in  its 
grave.  Yet  the  mood  was  rare  upon  him,  for 
his  heart  was  mighty  and  his  fame  ran  through 
all  the  world. 

It  was  the  low  sundown  of  the  year.  The 
toil  and  triumph  of  the  past  season  were  done. 
He  could  not  choose  but  yearn  for  the  first-born 
kiss  of  Iseult' s  mouth.  But  his  heart  was  greater 
than  his  grief  and  kept  his  strength  in  its  sum- 
mer's prime.  He  looked  out  across  the  drifting 
sea  and  the  shore  crumbling  under  the  waves, 
and  communed  with  himself. 

"What  sum  of  pain  would  it  take  to  break  a 
man's  soul  ?"  he  murmured.  "  "VYe  are  all  parts 
of  one  great  end,  and  if  we  go  through  fire  and 
water  to  a  common  bourn  where  we  two  must 
be  made  one,  what  does  it  matter  ?" 

He  mused  upon  his  fate  with  closed  lips  and 
uplifted  eyes,  wandering  about  the  bare  wolds 
in  banishment.    His  heart  was  hungry  with  long 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  31 

absence  from  her  he  loved.  Yet  as  he  strode 
onward  fresh  courage  came  to  him,  and  a  dawn 
rose  in  his  heart  till  it  and  the  heart  of  the 
ancient  hills  were  one.  The  winds  took  counsel 
with  him  and  the  sun  spoke  comfort.  The 
shout  of  birds  sounded  in  his  ears  like  clear 
sweet  speech.  The  noises  of  the  streams  were 
a  welcome  laughter,  and  sj^ring's  trumpet  blew 
as  a  cry  of  love  over  moor  and  lea. 

He  went  now  as  if  a  light  were  about  his 
head,  for  neither  grief  nor  fear  can  master  a 
young  man's  blood  so  long  that  it  shall  He  dead 
to  the  voice  of  spring-time.  All  the  births  of 
the  land  and  waifs  of  the  water  seemed  to  draw 
near  to  soothe  his  sorrow  and  set  his  life  free 
from  remembrance  of  pain.  With  an  exalted 
heart  he  resolved  to  take  his  share  of  sun  or 
storm  and  be  glad  for  things  lost,  because  they 
had  brought  him  a  hidden  good. 

He  had  come  back  now,  after  many  seasons 
spent  in  barren  ways,  with  strange  fights  and 
vigils  under  the  shield,  to  the  strait  of  sea  which 
parts  Cornwall  from  Brittany.  Here  dwelt  the 
daughter  of  the  king  of  those  realms,  who  was 
named  Iseult,  because  of  her  fair  hands,  and 
she  looked  on  him  and  loved  him.  Being  young, 
she  was  ashamed  to  speak  her  love,  and  kept  it 
silent  on  her  lips.  On  her  heart,  too,  she  set 
the  seal  of  humility.     But  when  the  stranger 


32  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

came  into  her  sight,  a  weary  and  banished  man, 
all  unlike  him  who  steered  the  Swallow,  and 
sang  the  imperial  Iseult  to  her  home,  this 
maiden  of  sixteen  sinless  years  looked  upon  him 
courteously,  and  he  burned  her  eyes  as  though 
she  had  turned  them  on  the  sun  itself.  She 
felt  a  sweet  thrill  beat  through  her  veins  even 
to  her  hands  and  feet.  When  he  spoke,  there 
sounded  a  song  in  her  ears  as  if  it  came  out 
of  past  days,  heard  once-  and  forgotten,  and 
now  remembered  again  with  rapture.  But 
her  soul  took  the  sense  of  change  as  the  moun- 
tain snow  takes  the  first  sense  of  April's  ap- 
proach. To  her,  maiden  love  was  an  unknown 
thing.  Her  eyes  hardly  followed  him ;  her  cheeks 
scarcely  took  on  another  hue  at  his  speech,  and 
her  mouth  no  more  trembled  than  a  rose  will  at 
a  light  breeze.  If  she  sighed  in  her  sleep,  she 
knew  it  not. 

Yet  in  her  heart  there  hovered  thoughts  of 
past  things,  till  her  memory  burned  with  grief 
and  hope  to  see  him  so  great  and  so  sad.  She 
knew  not  what  fate  had  bowed  his  head.  He 
scarcely  spoke  to  her  at  all  of  the  things  which 
had  sent  him  over  sea  from  his  own  land  into 
banishment.  And  yet  remembrance  of  his  least 
word  of  courtesy,  his  tender  thanks  for  her  pity, 
his  fair  greetings,  seemed  to  cling  around  her 
always. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  33 

But  when  her  name  would  fall  on  him 
between  strange  words,  his  heart  suddenly- 
bounded  back  to  its  lure  like  a  falcon,  and 
trembled  and  bowed  down  before  it.  "  Iseult" 
he  would  hear,  and  the  cloud-like  world  grew 
aflame  to  him  and  his  heart  flashed  lightning. 
"  Iseult"  again,  and  the  weary  heavens  shone  like 
the  queen's  own  kindling  eyes.  Thus,  seeing  the 
blood  mount  in  his  face  at  hearing  her  name, 
the  girl  thought,  "  Haply,  my  name  was  worn 
by  one  long  ago  dead, — some  sister  he  loved."  So 
pitying  him,  her  heart  was  brought  ever  into 
deeper  thraldom. 

But  once,  when  the  winds  made  mirth  outside 
and  March  was  holding  revel,  a  new  delight 
mingled  with  doubt  entered  the  maiden's  soul, 
and  she  yearned  towards  him  as  he  touched  the 
harp  on  high  before  her.  His  words  kindled 
her  heart,  and  through  all  the  rhymes  came  the 
soft  burden  of  her  name.  Before  the  song  had 
ended  joy  strove  with  fear  in  her  and  cast  fear 
out,  and,  like  Tristram's  harp,  she  tingled  with  a 
music  born  of  hope. 

He  ceased  to  sing  at  last,  yearning  upon  the 
name ;  and  she  quailed  and  trembled  before  she 
dared  raise  her  eyes  to  his  for  an  answer  to  her 
love. 

Her  face  began  to  flush  with  changing  roses, 
and  she  would  fain  have  said  something,  but  did 
III.— c 


34  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

not  know  what  it  should  be.  Then  she  rose  up 
and  reached  forth,  her  hand  to  him,  and  he 
bowed  his  head  and  dropped  his  knee,  and  his 
h'ps  pressed  like  fire  upon  her  fragrant  hand. 
Their  hearts  were  like  a  trembling  harp,  where 
music  seemed  to  shudder  at  its  own  joy. 

Thus  their  marriage  night  dawned  in  the  moon- 
rise  of  love. 

IV. 

The  spring  waned  into  May-time  and  the 
days  sped  on  towards  the  bridal  morning.  The 
ring  was  set  on  Iseult's  fair  hand,  while  the 
song  that  hailed  her  name  as  love's  queen  still 
hovered  in  her  ears.  In  her  young  loveliness  she 
was  innocent  of  all  desire  and  doubt,  and  her 
heart  quivered  with  a  pulse  of  light. 

Her  father  and  her  brother  led  her  between 
them  from  the  hall  to  the  shrine,  and  from  the 
shrine  to  the  marriage-bed.  Yet  she  did  not 
discover  how  at  home-coming  there  happened  to 
fall  from  Tristram's  hand  a  royal  ring,  which, 
looking  upon,  he  felt  the  old  passion  kindle 
anew  in  his  faithless  heart. 

The  ring  was  given  to  him  by  the  hand  where 
his  heart's  pledge  lay  forever,  and  the  sin  that 
should  be  done  if  he  should  take  this  maid  to 
wife,  abashed  his  spirit  and  made  him  grow  cold 
for  very  shame. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  35 

As  he  thought  of  the  thing,  all  the  past  l*ose 
upon  him.  He  saw  once  again,  in  vision,  how 
they  had  parted,  and  how  they  had  been  found 
in  the  greenwood  asleep,  yet  severed  from  each 
other  by  the  sword  which  lay  between  them. 
How  Mark,  the  king,  when  he  saw  this, 
held  it  for  a  sign  that  they  were  no  fleshly 
lovers,  for  he  deemed  it  sacred.  How,  when 
they  awakened,  they  saw  the  king  with  his  folk 
about  him,  and  rose  and  went  home  with  him 
to  the  towers  washed  by  the  sea,  and  the  halls 
where  the  music  of  the  waves  forever  resounded. 
How  rumor  of  their  love  began  to  swell,  and 
the  most  trusted  of  his  peers,  a  bom  kinsman, 
who  hated  him,  whispered  at  midnight  to  King 
Mark  where  he  might  find  them  together.  How, 
before  the  morning,  they  brought  him  down,  fast 
bound,  to  the  old  chapel  on  the  sea-rocks,  with 
forty  knights  about  him,  the  chief  of  whom 
was  the  traitor  who  had  betrayed  him.  How, 
seeing  he  must  needs  die,  he  asked  if  they  had 
forgotten  what  deeds  he  had  done  for  Cornwall, 
he  who  had  rescued  them,  had  fought  against 
the  foul  Irish  invader  who  came  to  take  three 
hundred  children  as  tribute.  How  none  dared 
look  up  at  him,  saving  only  the  traitor  knight, 
who  defied  him  and  would  have  slain  him. 
How,  when  he  saw  the  sword  pulled  forth,  he 
looked  on  his  bound  hands  and  wrenched  away 


36  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

their  bonds,  haling  the  two  who  guarded  him 
suddenly  to  him,  and,  kindling  with  anger,  leapt 
on  his  kinsman  and  wrung  the  sword  from  his 
hands  and  smote  him  down.  How  all  the  press 
came  raging  on  him  and  he  slew  ten  knights 
without  a  wound.  How  the  throng  waxed 
greater,  but  he  had  won  the  chapel  overlooking 
the  sea.  How  his  heart  sprang,  seeing  the  leaps 
he  must  take  to  swim  out  across  the  belt  of  bil- 
lows to  the  mainland.  How,  as  a  sea-gull,  hover- 
ing aloft,  suddenly  drops,  he  hung  for  a  brief 
breathing  space,  then  plunged  with  an  exulting 
heart.  How  at  last  he  triumphed,  and  how 
Gouvernayle,  his  squire,  watching  hard  by, 
sought  where  a  man  swimming  might  win  the 
shore,  and  went  there  and  stayed  till  he  swam 
in  all  bruised  by  the  buffets  of  the  waves,  but 
laughing  and  flushed  as  if  with  wine. 

Tristram  felt  all  this  come  upon  him  in  a 
breath,  and  he  marvelled  that  it  should  be  no 
more  bitter  to  die  than  it  seemed  there  in  the 
sea.  He  pondered  how  all  his  years  had 
brought  but  him  to  this  sweet  yet  dark 
time,  where  his  foot  faltered  on  the  threshold 
of  the  bridal  bower,  for  it  seemed  harder  to 
pass  through  than  through  all  the  perils  of  the 
past.  Faith  alone  gave  him  courage  in  this  ex- 
tremity, for  his  heart  quailed  when  the  stars 
rose  and  the  torches  were  put  out.     The  bride- 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  37 

house  seemed  hung  with  mourning  to  him. 
But  he  passed  into  the  sweet  hght  of  the 
maiden  bower  where  Iseult  lay  like  a  fair  blos- 
som that  he  might  not  gather.  Fierce  regret 
and  loyalty  strove  in  him  with  pity  towards 
his  tender  young  wife,  that  must  never  wear 
the  crown  of  wedlock,  never  bear  children 
to  worship  her  white  hair,  and  never  know 
the  laughter  that  flows  from  the  lips  of  little 
ones. 

He  stood  pale  and  rent  with  passion  in  pres- 
ence of  the  gay  bride-folk  before  he  went  into 
the  chamber.  There  the  white  hands  gleamed 
and  the  fair  hair  glowed  that  reminded  him 
bitterly  of  one  who  was  fairer.  But  the  young 
bride  shone  so  fair  in  the  flower  of  her  youth, 
that  his  heart  could  scarcely  keep  its  pledge  as 
he  gazed  on  her.  He  drew  near  to  where  she 
lay  in  bed,  in  the  midst  of  the  dim  twilight  of 
her  alcove.  He  sighed  as  he  approached  her, 
and  then  lay  down  at  her  side,  but  said  no  word. 
But  his  heart  spoke  within  him.  He  felt  how 
sore  a  thing  it  would  be  to  break  troth  with 
her,  most  faithful  as  she  was  of  womankind. 
His  quick  blood  sprang  and  sank,  and  he  spoke 
aloud  for  memory's  sake  the  one  word : 

"  Iseult." 

"  I  am  here,"  said  a  virgin  voice,  full  of  timid 
love.    A  pang  rent  him  ;  but  still  faith  held  her 

4 


38  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

mastery.  His  spirit  and  flesh  were  vassals  to 
his  will. 

Softly,  with  the  motion  of  a  bough  where  a 
bird  alights,  he  turned  and  kissed  her  once  on 
the  forehead. 

But  he  kept  his  faith  unbroken,  for  in  be- 
tween them  floated  a  face  more  fair  than  hers. 

Y. 

But  that  same  night  across  the  sea  in  Corn- 
wall, Tristram's  hound  Hodain  couched  against 
Queen  Iseult's  knee  with  keen  eyes  that  read 
her  heart's  pain.  He  was  the  mightiest  of  his 
race  on  earth,  and  had  plied  his  craft  for  many 
a  day  through  the  forest  before  Tristram  and 
Iseult.  The  queen  cherished  him  more  because 
of  Tristram's  absence  than  for  the  old  times 
when  Tristram's  horn-blast  would  quicken  him 
into  delight  of  the  dawn.  Now  he  chafed 
through  all  the  long,  barren  days,  soothed  only 
by  the  queen's  hand. 

In  the  halls  below,  far  under  these,  sat  King 
Mark,  feasting.  He  was  full  of  cheer,  as  on  the 
night  when  the  harper  had  claimed  his  gift  and 
had  ridden  away  with  his  wife.  Music  revelled  on 
the  breeze,  and  songs  floated  up  the  stair  mingled 
with  the  roar  of  wassail.  The  king  took  good 
heart  from  his  wine-cups  and  the  harp-playing, 
and  his  cold  veins  rejoiced  as  with  the  life-blood 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  39 

of  a  kinglier  man.  The  queen,  in  her  far-away 
bower,  shut  her  weary  ears  and  sad  eyes.  She 
wrung  her  hair  with  fierce  hands,  and  prayed 
to  God  for  Tristram's  love  to  comfort  her  in  her 
down-fallen  life.  The  night  spoke,  and  the  sea 
thundered  on  for  wreckage,  and  the  northern 
bastions  rang  out  deep  responses  as  the  east 
wind  girded  up  his  strength  and  hurled  the 
fleeces  of  the  storm  in  against  them.  But  she 
heard  neither  wind  nor  sea,  and  knew  not 
whether  the  night  was  calm  or  maddened  with 
wind.  In  words  that  were  half  a  prayer  and 
half  a  cry  she  murmured  on  across  the  waters 
to  her  love : 

"  Dear,  do  you  see  my  worn  face  ?  do  you 
heed  my  wild  speech  where  you  sleep  to-night  ? 
Ah,  love,  are  your  days  my  days,  and  are  all 
your  nights  like  my  nights?  Does  the  sun 
grieve  you  ?  Are  you  soul-sick  till  the  day  dies 
and  weary  till  it  rises  ?  Is  your  heart  full  of 
dead  things,  as  mine  is  ?  No,  no ;  you  are  a  man, 
with  a  man's  strength, — no  bond-woman,  no 
queen,  no  loveless  wife." 

The  iron  wind  sounded  like  a  sword,  and  the 
sea  seemed  an  outbreaking  battle.  She  prayed 
that  Tristram's  love  should  be  turned  from  her, 
lest  he  also  should  lose  God,  as  she  had  done. 
Then,  in  the  extremity  of  her  grief,  she  wailed  : 
"  O    God,    give    him   back !    give    him    back ! 


40  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

for  how  shall  we  live  asunder  who  are  as  one 
heart !" 

All  the  night  long  she  strove  in  prayer,  and 
when  at  last  there  came  a  ripple  of  dawn  in  the 
East,  she  could  see  the  hound  crouched  at  her 
feet  and  her  bitterness  flowed  out  in  tears.  He 
laid  his  kind  head  along  her  knee,  and  she  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  The  darkness  passed 
away  from  her  like  a  breaking  chain ;  but  her 
heart  still  wailed  within  her,  and  she  was  loath 
to  see  the  sun  with  her  weary  eyes. 

At  that  same  moment  of  dawn,  in  a  land  far 
away,  the  glad  eyes  of  Iseult  of  Brittany  awoke 
beside  her  new  lord,  Tristram,  in  her  marriage- 
bower. 

YI. 

Before  April  had  come  and  gone,  a  feud  arose 
in  Brittany  between  Ganhardine,  Iseult' s  brother, 
and  Tristram,  her  husband.  One  day,  as  they 
rode  forth  hawking,  Ganhardine  came  to  Tris- 
tram in  great  wrath. 

"  We  have  loved  you,  and  you  have  shown  us 
only  scorn  in  return,"  he  said,  hotly.  "  Why  is 
your  bride  not  yours  indeed?  why  is  she  a 
stranger  beside  you  ?  What  evil  has  she  done 
to  be  mocked  with  mouth-marriage  and  set  at 
naught  ?" 

Anger  and  wonder  came  upon  Tristram's 
face. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  41 

"  Has  she  bidden  you  plead  with  me  for  her 
sake?"  he  asked,  scornfully.  "I  believed  more 
nobly  of  her  than  that  such  a  part  should  find 
so  fair  a  player." 

"  Nay,"  said  Ganhardine ;  "  only  just  now, 
riding  beneath  these  white  thorns,  a  flower  fell 
into  her  girdle-stead,  which,  with  a  laugh,  she 
shook  out.  '  What  liberty  the  wind  gives  this 
stray !'  she  said.  '  See,  it  lies  nearer  my  heart 
than  an^'thing  since  my  mother  lulled  me, — 
even  my  lord  himself  Thus  I  know  that  you 
scorn  us  all, — a  race  held  as  not  worth  com- 
munion with  yours, — unless  there  is  some  fault 
in  her  to  blemish  our  alliance." 

"  Neither  blame  nor  scorn  may  touch  my 
bride,"  said  Tristram,  "  albeit  she  lives  unknown 
of  love.  Faith  only  withheld  me,  and  forbade 
the  grace  of  wedlock ;  not  that  I  loved  her  any 
the  less,  but  that  my  love  of  faith  was  more. 
And  you,  Ganhardine,  though  your  heart  is  keen 
against  me  now,  could  you  but  see  my  very  lady 
herself,  then  you,  no  more  than  all  other  men, 
would  hold  my  faith  to  her  as  a  fault." 

Before  the  day's  hawking  came  to  an  end, 
Tristram  had  sworn  to  his  brother  Ganhardine 
that  he  should  see  that  other  strange  Iseult. 

They  soon  set  out  for  Cornwall,  and,  after 
much  travel  by  sea  and  land,  reached  the  royal 
domain  where  the  hunt  rang  as  of  old  when 

4* 


42  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Tristram's  horn  led,  with  the  queen's  horse  at 
his  side. 

That  day  the  first  of  all  the  queen's  dames 
who  rode  before  the  company  with  a  ringing 
rein  and  gay  laughter  was  Brangwain,  ever  her 
lady's  true  handmaid. 

When  Ganhardine  beheld  her,  he  marvelled 
at  her  beauty. 

"  Be  called  for  all  time  a  truth-teller !"  he  ex- 
claimed to  Tristram.  "  Never  yet  have  I  seen 
a  sight  like  this !" 

"  Ay,"  said  Tristram ;  "  and  she  whom  you 
look  upon  is  so  great  in  grace  that  you  have 
less  cause  than  ever  for  wrath  against  me, 
seeing  she  is  but  my  lady's  handmaid.  And 
do  you  see  no  other  light,  Ganhardine  ?  a  golden 
light  there,  which  shines  wherever  one  moves 
in  midst  of  them  all,  above  all,  past  all  praise  ? 
That  is  she." 

Ganhardine  stood  as  one  dizzy  with  wine. 
He  gazed  out  hard  at  the  troop,  and  his  heart 
was  cloven  as  with  a  sword.  He  scarcely  spoke, 
for  he  was  consumed  with  love  for  the  queen's 
fair  handmaid. 

Then,  because  he  was  unknown  to  the  king's 
followers,  Tristram  bade  him  carry  his  ring  to 
Brangwain,  that  she  might  give  it  secretly  to 
the  queen  and  send  him  word  where  they  might 
meet. 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  43 

That  same  night  they  came  together  under 
the  stars  as  of  old.  Iseult  feigned  sickness  to 
the  king  and  kept  him  from  her,  while  she  met 
Tristram  in  the  midst  of  her  pavilion ;  but  Gan- 
hardine  wooed  Brangwain. 

Iseult  and  Tristram  plotted  there  in  the  night 
how  they  should  flee,  and  where  they  should 
go. 

"  For  the  way  was  shown  me  by  Queen  Guene- 
vere  of  late,"  said  Iseult,  "  to  give  me  comfort 
of  my  wrong  from  the  traitor  Tristram  when  it 
was  thought  he  had  forsaken  me.  Her  sweet 
soul  should  not  yet  be  changed  towards  me  if  I 
crave  a  boon.  What,  then,  if  we  take  horse, 
and  make  haste  to  Camelot?" 

The  next  night  they  set  out,  and  in  a  brief 
space  came  to  Camelot,  where  their  long-en- 
during love  got  them  much  grace  of  Laun- 
celot  and  Guenevere,  whom  men  praised  as  the 
lordliest  lovers  in  the  world. 

The  weeks  and  months  sped  by  since  they 
had  first  seen  the  strength  of  Joyous  Gard. 
Love  gave  them  a  quiet  life  in  that  deep  and 
glorious  tower  which  stands  between  the  wild 
seas  and  lands.  They  took  many  a  day's  delight 
with  hawk  and  hound  in  those  wide  lands,  and 
the  long  waves  often  buoyed  their  boat  between 
the  rocks.  Sated  then  with  such  joys,  they 
would  sit  and  commune  of  past  things, — what 


44  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

state  King  Arthur  once  held  in  the  halls  they 
dwelt  in ;  of  Tristram  himself  and  his  three 
days'  triumph  in  the  tourney  when  Iseult  sat 
enthroned  by  Guenevere, — till  at  last  Iseult  fell 
to  bemoaning  her  lack  of  beaiity  because  she 
was  outshone  by  the  other  queen,  and  Tristram 
laughed  gently  at  her,  saying  she  forged  sweet 
wiles  like  children  to  deceive  herself. 

"  Shall  I  trust  you  more  than  a  fairy  crea- 
ture, who  so  belie  yourself?"  he  asked,  with  a 
caress. 

She  rebuked  him  for  breaking  troth  with  her 
in  marrying  the  other  Iseult ;  but  he  spoke  of 
the  draught  they  had  drained  of  old,  mixed  by 
the  hands  of  love  and  fate,  since  which  no 
power  could  ever  part  them,  for  the  will  of 
either  love  or  fate,  however  it  might  seem  at 
strife,  was  one  towards  them  who  had  drunk, 
as  death  and  life  are  a  sole  doom  towards  all; 
for  no  man  may  behold  the  sun  and  not  behold 
the  darkness  also. 

"  O  my  heart,"  he  broke  forth,  "  heavenliest 
head  that  ever  won  the  worship  of  men !  do 
not  think  it  much  to  die.  You  are  not  made 
in  the  mould  of  those  who  pass  away  forever!" 

"  But  what  shall  praise  profit  me  Avhen  I  am 
dead?"  she  asked.  "  What  am  I,  that  my  name 
should  live  so  long  ?  What  gift  can  I  give  you  ? 
Only  peril  and  sleepless  watches,  exile,  rebuke, 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  45 

remorse,  and — oh,  not  shame,  that  only  I  did 
not  give  you." 

Before  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  Tristram  smiled. 

"  Why  desire  more  words  ?"  he  said.  "  You 
have  given  me  life,  not  death.  All  I  had  before 
I  won  you  was  but  as  the  shadow  of  death. 
How  should  I,  who  have  belonged  to  sorrow 
from  my  cradle,  kiss  the  red  lips  of  mirth? 
There  is  no  third  on  the  earth  to  stand  with 
Guenevere  beside  my  queen, — not  Nimue,  nor 
Bttarde,  nor  she  whose  blind  love  brought  forth 
a  flame  to  burn  its  sire.  King  Arthur ;  but  lately 
we  saw  her  pass,  whose  own  sons  have  doomed 
her  to  death  for  her  shame." 

"  Death — yes,"  quoth  Iseult ;  "  there  is  not  said 
a  surer  word  on  earth.  Death  and  again  death, 
and  for  every  utterance  ten  tongues  chime  an 
answer.  God  send  us  a  good  end, — so  men 
pray.  But  I  pray  God  send  me  this  end, — not 
to  die  divided  from  you,  or  with  a  heart  rent 
by  the  sword,  but  only  when  you  die,  and  only 
where  you  are !" 

Thus  they  communed  till  the  evening  was 
worn  away.  They  did  not  hold  life  or  love  any 
the  less  dear  because  of  death.  They  stood  on 
the  soft,  funereal  shore  watching  till  the  day 
should  wholly  ebb.  They  saw  the  far-away  sea 
sweep  out  to  the  remote  gray  sky,  and  the  long 
sands  slope  down  to  the  sea.    J^ight  made  one 


46  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

sweet  mist  of  the  moors  where  only  the  distant 
foam  sent  forth  a  gleam,  and  life  sank  in  them 
as  silently  as  the  darkness  sank  upon  the  land 
and  sea. 

VII. 

But  all  that  year  in  Brittany  dwelt  the  white- 
handed  Iseult  brooding  over  her  sorrows.  The 
sweet  spirit  of  old  was  parched  with  blasts  of 
angry  thought.  Her  fair  innocence  was  con- 
sumed with  the  strong  flame  of  jealousy. 

The  same  hour  of  twilight  which  brought  the 
lovers  together  far  away  in  Joyous  Gard  saw 
her  seated  at  watch  by  the  opening  sea.  The 
day  seemed  to  cling  with  a  trembling  hand, 
reluctant  to  recede,  and  in  her  soul  likewise 
lingered  envy  and  hatred.  She  saw  far  off  in 
spirit  the  likeness  of  her  lord  wrought  in  light 
upon  the  darkness ;  but  there  was  an  imperial 
figure  beside  him  whose  shadow  cast  down  his 
bride.  Iseult's  eyes  and  heart  looked  upon  the 
sunset  as  upon  the  fires  of  hell ;  but  the  wrath 
within  her  seemed  a  passionate  holiness. 

"  How  long,  how  long,"  she  moaned,  "  till  thou 
do  justice,  O  long-suffering  judge !  Shalt  thou 
not  one  day  put  him  in  mine  hand  whom  I  loved 
so,  to  slay  and  spare  not  ?  Shalt  thou  not  cast 
her  down  that  I  may  step  upon  her  humbled 
head  ?  Do  I  not  well  to  be  angry  ?  Yea,  thou 
knowest  I  do  well.     Is  not  thy  seal  of  blood-red 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  47 

radiance  set  there  for  witness  on  the  brows  of 
day  and  night  ?  Make  me  thy  sword,  O  Lord, 
against  all  of  these  that  wrong  me !" 

She  mused  and  prayed  in  fierce  outbursts  till 
the  fire  in  the  sea  and  sky  sank  away  and  the 
northwest  wind  began  to  blow  harshly  above 
her.  Her  heart  waxed  dark  and  bitter  as  she 
listened  to  the  sea,  and  the  wind's  voice  seemed 
spoken  by  her  own  soul.  The  breath  about  her 
was  not  of  darkness,  but  of  very  death. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  young  bride's  grief,  the 
days  at  Joyous  Gard  sped  on  in  happiness,  like 
a  cloud  gleaming  in  the  western  sun.  The  lovers 
knew  not  any  more  than  the  waters  what  wind 
might  blow  next,  but  spent  their  time  in  glad- 
ness of  heart.  But  before  the  summer  had 
passed  all  their  joy  was  shaken  to  dust.  For 
the  last  time  they  strayed  upon  the  strand  to- 
gether, and  then  they  took  leave,  and  saw  the 
skies  grow  dark  because  they  were  divided. 

A  summons  came  to  Tristram  in  the  king's 
name.  He  was  commanded  to  go  to  the  succor 
of  the  king's  vassal,  Triamour,  who  ruled  in 
Wales,  but  was  now  spoiled  of  his  power,  as  was 
Tristram's  father  of  old,  by  one  of  the  strongest 
sons  of  earth,  named  TJrgan,  a  giant  of  iron  bulk. 

Iseult's  lord.  King  Mark,  had  demanded  her 
to  be  restored  by  Arthur ;  and  she  too  parted 
from  Joyous  Gard,  and  sat  once  again,  crowned 


48  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

with  state  and  sorrow,  in  Tintagel.  She 
yielded,  but  against  her  will,  saying  within  her 
own  soul  that  some  season  must  give  her  life 
again,  or  death.  Her  days  were  void  of  light 
or  darknesss  now  that  King  Mark  kept  his 
haggard  watch  upon  her,  for  his  looks  were 
more  cloudy  than  the  winter  skies.  Her  heart 
waxed  bitter  towards  him ;  but  he  was  rent  in 
twain  by  harsh  love  and  hate  of  her,  yearning 
to  be  quit  of  shame.  His  life  grew  a  smoulder- 
ing fire,  and  hers  was  charged  full  with  storm, 
touched  now  and  again  with  trembling  gleams 
as  hope  strove  with  the  darkness. 

But  Tristram  rode,  the  while,  through  the 
wastes  of  glorious  Wales,  high-hearted  with  the 
desire  for  fight.  He  was  stronger  in  soul,  and 
had  a  merrier  sense  of  strength,  than  since  the 
first  years  of  his  knighthood.  All  his  will  was 
towards  war.  Love  had  too  long  repressed  him 
and  kept  him  from  glory.  His  hope  waxed 
blithe  towards  battle,  and  high  desire  to  pluck 
fame  once  more  out  of  the  circling  fire. 

All  the  lovely  land  where  he  rode  had  been 
blasted  by  war,  and  the  homesteads  and  fields 
were  black  with  fire.  The  dead  lay  festering  in 
the  soft  air,  and  the  streams  were  loud  with  the 
wail  of  women.  Pity  for  these  things  brought 
a  deeper  wrath,  and  quickened  Tristram's  will 
every  league  he  rode  through  the  aching  land. 


THE   HEIR  AT  LAW.  49 

had  visited  a  person  who  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude 
to  her  father,  but  found  him  unwilling  to  come  to 
her  relief.  Her  best  friend,  Lord  Duberly,  was 
dead,  and  the  poor  young  lady  was  in  a  sad  strait. 

She  engaged  Cicely  Homespun,  however,  moved 
to  sympathy  by  their  both  having  been  recently 
made  orphans,  and  attracted  by  the  evident  hon- 
esty of  the  country  girl. 

Zekiel  had  accompanied  his  sister  to  Miss 
Dormer's,  and  left  her  there  in  service,  returning 
with  a  glad  heart  to  the  Blue  Boar,  to  tell  Dick 
of  his  good  fortune.  We  have  alread}^  described 
his  reception  by  the  new  scion  of  the  aristocracy. 

As  for  the  worthy  Dr.  Pangloss,  fortune  seemed 
to  be  showering  its  favors  on  his  learned  head. 
He  had  but  fairly  landed  Dick  at  the  Hanover 
Square  mansion,  when  Lady  Duberly  sent  for  him. 
Her  purpose  was  to  inquire  how  my  lord  came 
on  with  his  learning,  and  what  he  designed  to 
teach  Dick. 

The  doctor  named  a  ponderous  list  of  studies, 
far  more  than  the  good  lady  deemed  necessary. 
She  interrupted  the  pedant  to  inform  him  that  he 
had  left  out  the  main  article  ;  she  wanted  Dick 
to  be  taught  dancing. 

"  Dancing !  Dr.  Pangloss,  the  philosopher, 
teach  to  dance !  With  submission  to  your  lady- 
ship, my  business  is  with  the  head,  and  not  with 
the  heels,  of  my  pupil." 

"  Look  ye,  doctor,  he  must  learn  to  dance  and 
to  jabber  French ;  and  I  wouldn't  give  a  brass 
Vol.  III.— c        d         5 


5Q  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

farden  for  anything  else.  I  know  M'hat's  elegance ; 
and  you'll  find  the  gray  mare  the  better  horse  in 
this  house,  I  promise  you.  What's  your  pay  here, 
Mr.  Tutorer?" 

"  Three  hundred  pounds  per  annum  ;  that  is — 
six — no,  three — no — ay — no  matter." 

"  Do  as  I  direct  you  in  private,  and,  to  prevent 
words,  I'll  double  it." 

''Double  it!  What,  again!  I'll  take  it.  'Your 
hand  ;  a  covenant  ?'  Shakespeare.  Hem !  Zounds, 
I've  got  beyond  the  reading  at  last ! 

'  I've  often  wished  that  I  had  clear 
For  life,  nine  hundred  pounds  a  year.' 

Swift.     Hem !     I  hear,  my  lord " 


These  last  words  were  in  response  to  Lord 
Duberly,  who,  with  Dick,  entered  as  he  spoke. 
Dick  was  dressed  in  a  fashionable  suit  which  his 
father  had  provided  for  him  in  advance  of  his 
arrival,  and  which  he  wore  with  an  air  of  ludi- 
crous importance  and  self-satisfaction. 

"  The  very  air  and  grace  of  our  young  nobil- 
ity!" exclaimed  his  mother,  proudly. 

"  Is  it  ?"  asked  his  lordship.  "  Then  grace  must 
have  got  plaguey  limber,  for  there's  the  picture 
of  the  last  Lord  Duberly's  father,  in  our  dining- 
room  with  a  wig  as  wide  as  a  wash-tub,  and  stuck 
up  as  stiff  as  a  poker.  A  man  should  know  how 
to  bemean  himself  when  he  is  as  rich  as  Pluto." 

"  Plutus,  my  lord,"  corrected  the  doctor.  "  Pluto 
has   his  disciples,  no   doubt ;  but   Plutus   is   the 


THE   HEIR   AT  LAW.  61 

tuler  of  riches,"  and  the  worthy  pedant  ended 
with  a  ponderous  Greek  quotation. 

"  There,  Dick,  d'ye  hear  how  the  tutorer  talks  ?" 
exclaimed  Lord  Duberly.  "  Odd  rabbit,  he  can 
ladle  you  out  Latin  by  the  quart,  and  grunts  Greek 
like  a  pig.  I've  giv'  him  three  hundred  a  year,  and 
settled  all  he's  to  learn  you.     Ha'n't  I,  doctor?" 

"  Certainly,  my  lord.     '  Thrice  to  thine  ' " 

"Yes,  we  know  all  about  that.  Don't  we, 
doctor?"  queried  Dick. 

"Decidedly, — 'and  thrice  to  thine' " 

"Aye,  aye;  clearly  understood.  Isn't  it,  doc- 
tor ?"  asked  Lady  Duberly. 

"  Undoubtedly, — '  and  thrice  again  to  make  up 
nme.'     Shakespeare.     Hern !" 

They  were  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the 
entrance  of  a  servant  to  announce  a  visitor  to  his 
lordship.  Lord  and  Lady  Duberly  left  the  room, 
after  bidding  Dick  to  go  with  the  doctor  to  the 
library,  there  to  take  his  first  lesson. 

"  Plenty  of  learning  there,  I  promise  you,  doc- 
tor," said  his  lordship.  "  There's  all  Horace's 
operas ;  and  such  a  sight  of  French  books ;  but  I 
see  by  the  backs  they  were  all  written  by  Tom," 
and  with  this  amusing  misconception  of  the 
French  "  tome,"  he  withdrew. 

"  On  what  subject,  Mr.  Dowlas,  shall  we  com- 
mence our  researches  this  evening?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"We'll  go  to  the  billiard-room,  and  knock  the 
balls  about  a  little." 


52  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

"  If  1  could  but  persuade  you  to  peep  into  a 
classic " 

"  Peep !  why,  you  prig  of  a  fellow,  don't  I  pay 
you  because  I  won't  peep  ?  Talk  of  this  again, 
and  I'm  off  our  contract." 

"Are  you?  I'm  dumb,"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
in  alarm.  " '  Mammon  leads  me  on !'  Milton. 
Hem!     I  follow." 

And  off  they  went  for  Dick's  first  lesson  in  the 
fine  art  of  playing  the  fashionable  young  gentle- 
man. 

Dick  was  learningf  his  lesson  somewhat  too 
rapidly.  His  light  head  had  been  so  turned  by 
his  sudden  elevation  that  the  substratum  of  solid 
honesty  at  the  bottom  of  his  nature  was  for  the 
time  being  quite  obscured.  This  loss  of  his  moral 
level  he  showed  soon  afterwards,  in  an  interview 
with  Zekiel  Homespun. 

The  new-made  "  honorable"  began  by  pettishly 
accusing  Zekiel  of  intruding  at  an  unseasonable 
hour,  and  demanding  who  let  him  in. 

"  Why,  a  fat  man  in  the  hall,  that  popped  out 
of  a  leather  chair,  that  comes  all  over  his  head 
like  a  tub." 

"  The  porter,  I  suppose,"  said  Dick. 

"  Belike  it  was.  He  has  tassels  a  top  of  his 
shoulders ;  and  a  sight  o'  binding,  that  looks  like 
parsley  and  butter,  about  his  waistcoat.  1  tell  ye, 
I  was  uneasy  about  ye,  Dick.  You  did  promise 
to  meet  us,  this  a'ternoon." 

"I  have  been  prevented,"  said  Dick,  loftily. 


THE   HEIR  AT   LAW.  53 

"  We  young  fellows  of  fashion  can't  answer  for 
our  hours." 

Zekiel  proceeded  to  tell  that  he  had  just  seen 
Cicely,  and  left  her  in  tears  at  Dick's  failure  to 
keep  his  promise,  saying  that  he  had  never  broken 
his  woi'd  till  he  was  made  a  gentleman. 

The  new-made  sprig  of  the  nobility  at  this 
began  to  put  on  airs  of  protection.  A  girl  on 
whom  Lord  Duberly's  son  had  fixed  his  affections 
must  not  be  left  in  service,  he  said  ;  he  would 
settle  some  plan  for  her ;  to  remain  in  place  would 
disgrace  one  of  us,  he  declared. 

"  It  can't  disgrace  one  of  us,  Dick,"  answered 
Zekiel.  "  A  good  girl,  who  do  get  her  bread  in 
honest  industry,  be  a  pride,  instead  of  a  disgrace, 
to  any  that  loves  her." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that— I " 

He  had  no  little  difficulty  in  saying  what  he 
did  mean,  and  in  bringing  the  honest  farmer  to 
understand  the  idea  which  he  had  conceived  as  the 
duty  of  a  man  of  fashion.  But  when,  after  much 
circumlocution,  he  told  Zekiel  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  the  son  of  a  peer  to  marry  a  farmer's  daugh- 
ter ;  but  that  he  would  raise  her  above  poverty, 
and  that  they  might  be  man  and  wife, — aside  from 
the  usual  forms  of  matrimony, — Zekiel  brought 
his  halting  utterance  to  a  sudden  termination. 

"  Oh,  now  I  understand  ye !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  be  a  rascal.  Odds  flesh,  I  shall  choke  I 
A  damned  rascal !  Keep  out  o'  my  way,  or  I 
may  do  you  a  mischief" 

5* 


54  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 


"  Nay,  but- 


"  Dick,  Dick,  had  a  stranger  done  this,  I'd  ha' 
knocked  him  down ;  but  for  a  dear  friend  to  turn 

traitor "     The  honest  fellow  burst  into  tears. 

— "  It's  too  much  !     I  can't  stand  it !" 

'•  "Well,  but  only  hear  me " 

"  I  ha'  heard  too  much  a'ready.  Eot  it !  I  be 
ashamed  to  be  such  a  blubberer ;  but  the  greatest 
shame  do  light  upon  you." 

"  I  begin  to  feel  that  it  does,  Zekiel,"  answered 
Dick,  stirred  to  remorse  by  Zekiel's  honest  indig- 
nation. 

"And  well  you  may.  If  it  be  the  part  of  a 
lord's  son  to  stab  his  friend  to  the  heart,  by  rob- 
bing his  sister  of  her  honesty,  much  good  may 
it  do  you  wi'  your  grandeur.  Let  me  tell  your 
grandeur  this,  Mr.  Dowlas ;  if  3"ou  dare  to  hurt 
Cicely,  the  law  shall  lay  you  flat  in  the  first  place, 
and  my  ploughman's  fist  in  the  second  j  and  so, 
my  service  to  you !" 

And  the  worthy  fellow  stamped  from  the  room 
in  mingled  rage  and  grief,  leaving  his  late  friend 
with  the  feeling  that  he  had  not  distinguished 
himself  in  his  first  attempt  to  be  fashionable. 

Zekiel  made  his  way  from  the  Duberly  mansion 
to  the  more  humble  residence  where  his  sister 
was  employed.  His  heart  was  so  full  of  pain 
and  rage  that  he  could  not  have  a  moment's  rest 
till  he  had  warned  his  sister  against  the  base 
designs  of  her  lovei*. 

The  revelation  was  too  much  for  poor  Cicely. 


THE   HEIE  AT   LAW.  55 

She  burst  into  such  a  passion  of  tears  that 
Zekiel  had  much  ado  to  comfort  her.  She  vowed 
that  her  heart  would  break,  and  declared  that 
Dick  was  a  heartless  traitor. 

"  A  viper !"  exclaimed  Zekiel.  "  He  ha'  stung  me 
to  the  quick.    To  offer  to  harm  you, — damn  him !" 

"Oh,  don't  say  that  of  him,  Zekiel,"  pleaded 
Cicely.  "  I  can't  bear  that,  though  he  ha'  been  so 
cruel  to  me." 

"  Then  pluck  up  a  bit  of  spirit  now ;  pray  you, 
do.  You  ha'  gotten  a  good  place,  you  do  know. 
How  dost  like  madam,  eh.  Cicely  ?" 

"  Purely,"  said  the  poor  girl,  with  a  sigh.  "  She 
is  so  tender  and  kind  to  me." 

"  Come,  dry  your  eyes  now.  I  be  main  glad  to 
hear  madam  be  so  good  to  you.  Things  will  go 
well  enough,  I  warrant  us." 

Things,  in  fact,  promised  to  go  badly  enough. 
Caroline  Dormer,  as  we  have  said,  had  but  two 
hundred  pounds  left  of  her  father's  fortune. 
This  was  in  the  form  of  a  draft  on  a  London 
banking-house,  which  she  had  sent  Kenrick,  her 
servant,  to  get  cashed. 

While  waiting  his  return  she  entered  the  room 
where  the  brother  and  sister  were  in  conversa- 
tion, and  greeted  Zekiel  in  a  kindly  tone. 

He  responded  gratefully,  thanked  her  for  her 
kindness  to  Cicely,  and  said  that  he  had  another 
favor  to  ask  of  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Why,  here  be  a  scrap  o'  paper,  here ;  it  were 


56  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

poor  father's.  If  you  would  be  pleased  to  tell 
me  if  it  be  worth  anything,  now  it  be  so  old." 

"  It  is  worth  inquiring  after,"  said  Caroline, 
examining  it.     "  It  is  an  old  lottery  ticket." 

"  Pshaw !  then  it  be  of  little  good.  Father 
was  always  a  dabbling,  but  he  had  no  luck  that 
way.  I'll  seek  about  it  at  shop,  tho'.  I  wish  you 
a  dutiful  good-morning,  madam." 

After  Zekiel's  departure  Caroline  questioned 
her  maid  closely  about  her  sorrowful  looks,  and 
learned  her  sad  story,  that  she  had  not  only  lost 
her  lover,  but  that  he  had  basely  insulted  her. 

"  He  has  so  changed  since  he  has  been  made  a 
lord's  son,"  she  said. 

"A  lord's  son  !  how,  Cicely?" 

"  His  father  has  had  good  fortune  by  a  death ; 
and  Dick  is  now  son  to  Lord  Duberly !" 

"Lord  Duberly!  good  heavens!"  exclaimed 
Caroline.  "  The — the  present  Lord  Duberly,  you 
mean,  Cicely?" 

"  Yes.  The  last  lord's  son  was  drowned  at  sea, 
they  say.     Perhaps  you  have  heard  on't,  madam." 

"  I  have ;  I  have,  indeed !"  exclaimed  the  young 
lady,  in  great  agitation. 

"  Oh,  dear !  arn't  you  well,  madam  ?" 

"Yes — I — I — 'tis  nothing,  Cicely.  Weep  no 
more,  my  poor  girl ;  and  thank  heaven  that  you 
have  escaped  from  a  profligate." 

At  this  moment  Kenrick  burst  hastily  into  the 
room,  in  a  state  of  great  mental  disorder.  His 
news  fully  justified  his  agitation.     The  draft  was 


THE   HEIR  AT  LAW.  57 

worthless,  lie  declared,  the  bank  was  broken,  and 
so  utterly  that  there  was  no  money  for  any  one. 

"Then  I  am  completely  ruined!"  exclaimed 
Caroline,  sinking  nervelessly  into  a  chair. 

"  Don't  grieve,"  cried  Kenrick.  "  Pray  keep 
up  a  good  spirit ;  for  you  have  lost  every  farthing 
you  had  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  the  gracious,  is  that  it?"  exclaimed 
Cicely.  "  Pra}-,  madam,  don't  take  on  so,  for  I 
have  money?" 

"  What !  have  you  money  ?" 

"  Aye ;  ten  good  pounds  that  my  mother  left 
me,  and  a  silver  watch.  It  shall  never  be  said 
that  I  kept  it  from  one  in  distress  that's  been  so 
kind  to  me." 

"  My  poor  girl !"  exclaimed  the  grateful  young 

lady.  "I  must  retire  and  think  of Do  not  follow 

me.  Cicely.     Oh,  for  what  misery  am  I  ordained  !" 

She  left  the  room  in  deep  distress,  which  was 
fully  shared  by  those  she  left  behind  her,  Ken- 
rick vowing  that  he  would  pledge  his  watch,  his 
buckles,  and  himself,  if  the  pawnbroker  would 
lend  anything  on  him,  for  her  relief. 

The  world,  indeed,  looked  black,  alike  for  lady 
and  maid  ;  for  the  former  in  her  financial,  for  the 
latter  in  her  love  affairs.  Yet  fortune,  by  one  of 
those  strange  turns  in  its  wheel  which  no  man 
can  foresee,  was  on  the  point  of  bringing  them 
both  relief  from  their  troubles,  and  preparing  a 
downfall  for  the  new-made  lord  and  his  would-be 
fashionable  son. 


58  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

Dick  Dowlas,  in  truth,  was  far  from  being  as 
black  as  he  had  painted  himself.  Zekiel's  re- 
proaches had  touched  the  substratum  of  honesty 
that  lay  below  his  new  varnish  of  fashion,  and 
the  angry  ploughman  had  not  long  gone  before 
his  late  friend's  heart  was  stung  with  the  bitter- 
est pangs  of  remorse. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  sought,  in  company 
with  his  tutor,  the  vicinity  of  the  house  where 
Cicely  was  employed.  Here  he  bade  the  doctor 
to  knock  gently  on  the  door,  "  the  knock  of  a 
dun,"  and  then  to  take  himself  away  for  a  while. 

"  My  constant  custom,  on  such  an  occasion," 
answered  Pangloss,  as  he  obeyed  orders.  "  There's 
the  thorough  knock  of  a  creditor.  '  I  never 
heard  it  but  I  run  away  upon  instinct.'  Shake- 
speare.    Hem !" 

He  vanished  round  the  corner,  as  Cicely  ap- 
peared in  response  to  the  knock. 

"  Dear !  sure  somebod}"  knocked.  I  see  nobody 
but  that  gentleman."  Dick  stood  with  his  back 
to  her.  "  Was  it  you  that  knocked,  pray,  sir  ?" 
Dick  turned  at  this,  and  Cicely  screamed.  "  Don't 
come  near  me !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  My  dear  Cicely,  I "  he  began. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  Dick !"  She  burst  into  tears  and 
fell  into  his  arms. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this.  Your  tears  go  to  my  very 
soul.  Cicely." 

"  'Tis  you  who  have  been  the  cause  of  them. 
You  have  almost  cut  ray  poor  heart  in  two." 


THE   HEIR  AT  LAW.  59 

"My  own  suffers  for  it,  believe  me." 

In  short,  the  repentant  lover  humbly  confessed 
his  fault,  which  he  ascribed  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  dazzled  by  his  sudden  elevation,  and 
told  the  happy  girl  that  his  fortune,  his  heart, 
and  his  hand  were  hers  in  atonement. 

''  Your  hand !"  she  cried,  with  tears  of  joy.  "  I 
— I  shall  be  able  to  speak  more  soon.  Oh,  Dick!" 
The  bell  rang  within.     "  Hark,  I  am  wanted." 

"  One  moment.     Tell  me  you  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you  ?  Oh,  Dick,  you  have  made  me 
80  happy !     Good-by,  and " 

"  One  kiss,  and — good-by."  Cicely  hastily  re- 
turned to  the  house.  "  That  one  kiss  of  virtuous 
love  is  worth  a  million  times  the  blandishments 
that  wealth  and  luxury  can  offer,"  cried  the  re- 
pentant lover.  "  Where  the  devil  now  is  the 
doctor  ?     I  am  brimful  of  joy,  and  have  nobody 

to   communicate    my Oh,   here    you    are ! 

Embrace  me,  doctor." 

"  Bless  me !  why,  we  are  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  as  Dick  gave  him  a 
bear-like  hug.     "  Decorum,  Mr.  Dowlas " 

"  Damn  decorum !  I'm  out  of  my  senses.  I'm 
going  to  be  mari'ied." 

"  Married !  mercy  on  me !  He  is  mad,  indeed. 
'  Trihus  anticyris  caput  insanabile.'  Horace. 
Hem  !     Only  reflect  on " 

"  Reflect !  Look  ye,  you  grave  mustard-pot  of  a 
philosopher,  you  shall  dance  a  jig  down  the  street 
with  me,  to  show  your  sympathy  in  my  happiness." 


60  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

"  A  doctor  of  laws  dance  a  jig,  in  the  open  street, 
at  noonday!"  exclaimed  Pangloss. 

"  Dance — dance !"  cried  Dick,  "  or  hang  me,  if 
I  don't  cut  off  your  three  hundred  a  year  in  a 
twinkling  !" 

"  Will  you?  oh,  then — 'a  flourish  of  trumpets.' 
Shakespeare.  Hem !  '  Over  the  hills  and  far 
away!'  "  and  down  the  street  went  the  pair,  danc- 
ing like  Bacchanals. 

Great  as  was  the  happiness  of  Cicely  in  her 
reconciliation  with  her  lover,  there  was  a  still 
greater  happiness  preparing  for  her  mistress.  In 
truth,  the  tidings  of  Henry  Morland's  death 
were  false  ones.  He  was  not  only  alive,  but  was 
at  that  moment  in  London,  and  the  new  Lord 
Duberly's  career  as  a  peer  of  the  realm  was  near 
its  end. 

Morland  had  been  saved  from  the  shipwreck 
by  a  fellow-passenger,  Mr.  Stedfast,  who  had 
again  saved  him  from  death  by  freezing  when 
they  were  thrown  together  on  the  frozen  shores 
of  Cape  Breton  Island.  These  two,  now  the 
warmest  friends,  had  just  reached  London, — 
Morland  in  ignorance  of  the  death  of  his  father 
and  of  the  misfortunes  of  his  betrothed. 

He  commissioned  Mr.  Stedfast  to  see  his  father, 
whom  he  described  as  a  staid  old  gentleman,  stiff, 
and  dignified  in  manner,  but  sterling  at  heart. 
As  for  himself,  he  would  call  on  Mr.  Dormer,  and 
have  him  break  the  fact  of  his  arrival  to  Caroline. 

They  were  both  destined  to  surprises.     Morland 


THE   HEIR   AT   LAW.  61 

^ound,  to  his  distress,  that  Mr.  Dormer  was  dead, 
his  estate  vanished,  and  his  daughter  disappeared. 
As  for  Stedfast,  he  was  utterly  taken  aback,  when 
introduced  to  Lord  Duberly,  in  finding  a  vulgar 
storekeeper  in  place  of  the  grand  old  nobleman 
he  had  been  prepared  to  meet.  They  talked, 
indeed,  at  such  cross-purposes  that  Stedfast  failed 
to  discover  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  new- 
made  lord,  while  Duberly  could  only  explain  his 
visitor's  seemingly  wild  remarks  on  the  theory 
that  "  that  there  chap's  mad." 

"Never  let  him  clap  his  ugly  mug  into  these 
doors  again,"  he  said  to  the  servant.  "  Odd  rabbit 
it,  if  peers  are  to  be  frightened  by  lunatics  in  this 
here  fashion,  I'd  rather  serve  soap  and  candles 
again  in  comfort  at  Gosport." 

The  two  friends  were  not  long  in  gaining  an 
explanation  of  this  mystery.  Morland,  utterly 
mj'stified  by  what  Stedfast  had  told  him  about  his 
interview,  called  himself  on  Lord  Duberly,  where 
he  quickly  perceived  that  a  new  tenant  had  come 
to  the  lordly  halls  of  the  Hanover  Square  mansion. 
To  his  surprise  and  sorrow  he  learned  of  his 
father's  death,  and,  without  revealing  his  identity 
to  the  plebeian  nobleman,  he  withdrew  for  further 
consideration. 

As  the  two  friends  were  talking  over  the  matter 
in  the  street,  old  Kenrick  made  his  appearance, 
weary  and  woe-begone.  He  had  been  making 
fruitless  appeals  in  behalf  of  his  young  mistress 
from  the  professed  friends  of  his  old  master. 

6 


62  TALES   FROM   THE   DRAMATISTS. 

"  How  my  poor  ould  bones  ache !"  he  groaned  ; 
"and  sure  the  biggest  bone  about  me  is  in  my 
heart,  for  that  aches  more  than  all  the  other  half 
of  my  body.  If  we  could  have  kept  the  brave 
Mr.  Henry  Morland's  chin  above  water,  now !  but, 
bless  him,  he's  gone,  and " 

"  How  ?"  cried  Morland,  who  just  then  caught 
sight  of  the  old  man.  "  Can  I  be  mistaken  in 
that  face  ?    Kenrick  !" 

"  Eh  !  why  sure Och,  faith,  it's  himself  I 

Safe  and  sound,  and  not  a  wet  rag  about  him !" 
and  the  old  fellow  danced  with  joy. 

"  It  is  he !"  cried  Morland,  in  glad  relief.  "  Ken- 
rick, tell  me,  where  is — where  is  Caroline?" 

It  was  not  easy  to  get  an  answer  from  the  old 
Irishman,  whose  delight  for  the  time  quite 
drowned  out  his  reason.  Finally,  he  regained  his 
senses  sufficiently  to  speak  of  the  distressed  state 
of  his  young  mistress,  and  his  futile  efforts  in  her 
behalf.  Much  of  this  was  told  while  they  were 
on  their  way  to  Caroline's  lodgings,  whither  her 
lover  had  asked  to  be  conducted  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay. 

At  that  moment  others  of  our  characters  were 
on  their  way  to  the  same  locality,  each  with  his 
budget  of  good  news. 

A  conference  of  much  importance  had  just 
taken  place  at  the  Duberly  mansion.  Dick  had 
dropped  a  thunderbolt  in  that  aristocratic  locality 
by  asking  the  consent  of  his  lord  and  lady  parents 
to   his   marriage   with   Cicely  Homespun.      His 


THE   HEIR  AT  LAW.  63 

lordship  was  not  unwilling,  but  her  ladyship  op- 
posed it  strongly,  and  was  only  won  over  at  last 
by  Doctor  Pangloss's  assurance  that  such  alli- 
ances were  not  uncommon  in  the  nobility.  The 
Marquis  of  Lombardy,  for  instance,  had  married 
Grizzle,  his  tenant's  daughter,  he  stated,  though 
he  failed  to  say  that  that  statement  was  given  on 
the  authority  of  Chaucer. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  lady?"  ex- 
claimed Dubcrly,  in  triumph.  "  Hang  it,  if  the 
marquis  married  Grizzle,  Dick  may  marry  the 
maid-servant." 

"  My  pupil  ?  Zounds,  my  salary  !"  exclaimed 
Pangloss,  in  an  aside.  "  '  Tremor  occupat  artes  !' 
Virgil.     Hem  !     My  income  totters." 

"  And  in  that  there  case,  doctor,  your  three  hun- 
dred a  year  must  go  to  the  mending  of  my  cakelo- 
log}',"  said  his  lordship. 

"  One  annuity  goes  with  my  pupil,"  groaned 
the  distressed  doctor.  "  Then  I've  only  clear  for 
life  '  six  hundred  pounds  a  year  .'     Swift.    Hem  !" 

"  And  you  know,  doctor,  my  three  hundred 
stops  the  moment  my  son  marries,"  said  Lady 
Duberly  to  him  in  an  aside  remark. 

"  What,  stop  your  three !  '  Thrice  the  branded 
cat  has  mewed !'     Shakespeare.     Hem !" 

"You  are  always  my  darling,  you  know,  Dick, 
and  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  give  you  a 
denial,"  continued  Lady  Duberly,  turning  to  her 
Bon. 

"  That's  ray  good  mother !"  exclaimed   Dick. 


64  TALES   FROM   THE  DRAMATISTS. 

"You've  made  me  so  happy.  "Wish  me  joy, 
doctor.  The  coach  is  at  the  door.  Let  me  take 
you  all  to  visit  Cicely." 

While  he  was  gaining  their  consent  to  this,  the 
doctor  stood  in  groaning  distress. 

"  I've  lost  as  pretty  a  pair  of  snug  annuities  as 
— let  me  see — take  six  from  nine —  '  and  thx'ee 
remains.'     Cocker.     Hem !" 

"  Come,  doctor,  we  lose  time.     It  is  late." 

"  Only  three,"  muttered  Pangloss. 

"  Only  three !  why  it's  twelve,  man.  Come,  if 
you  don't  attend  to  my  father  better,  I  can  tell 
you,  he'll  kick  you  and  your  three  hundred  a  year 
to  the  devil." 

"  Will  he  ?"  exclaimed  Pangloss  in  terror.  "  '  Oh, 
for  a  horse  with  wings !'  Shakespeare.  Hem  1 
I  fly,  Mr.  Dowlas." 

Meanwhile,  at  Caroline's  lodgings  distress  was 
in  the  ascendant.  Depressed  by  her  loss  of  for- 
tune, she  was  on  the  point  of  telling  Cicely  that 
she  was  unable  to  keep  her  longer,  when  the 
happy  maid  interrupted  with  the  stoiy  of  her 
reconciliation  with  Dick,  and  their  intended 
marriage. 

"  And  when  my  husband  gives  me  any  money, 
if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  borrow  it  of  me,  I 
should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed, 
madam,"  said  the  kind-hearted  girl. 

"  Oh,  Cicely,  you  overpower  me !"  cried  Caro- 
line, tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  Zekiel, 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  65 

fluctuant  light  gleamed  on  the  hollow  dai-kness. 
It  grew  and  strengthened,  and  at  last  the  clear 
white  of  a  sail  bowed  and  dipped  and  rose  far  out 
at  sea.  Swift  as  the  wing  of  a  sea-mew  it  came 
near  before  the  wind,  as  if  fain  to  bring  comfort 
and  shorten  its  narrowing  track.  The  watcher 
saw,  and  looked  towards  her  wounded  lord. 

"Ay,"  she  said,  "the  ship  surely  comes,  but 
her  sail  is  black." 

He  would  have  sprung  upright  and  looked 
for  himself,  but  strong  death  struck  him,  and 
darkness  closed  around  him  like  iron,  and  Tris- 
tram lay  dead,  smitten  through  the  heart. 

The  news  had  scarcely  gone  abroad  and  the 
wail  of  woe  risen,  before  the  snow-bright  sail 
came  to  shoreward,  and  Ganhardine  leaped  forth 
to  land  leading  Iseult  from  the  ship  swiftly  and 
reverently. 

From  the  crowd  around  them  broke  forth  the 
great  wail  for  Tristram,  and  before  even  her  ear 
had  heard,  her  heart  divined  the  truth.  She 
sought  no  witness  of  the  tidings,  but  came  and 
stood  above  him.  Her  head  bowed  as  if  to 
reach  the  spring  that  slakes  all  thirst,  and  their 
four  lips  met  in  a  long,  silent  kiss. 

So  their  hour  came,  and  the  stroke  of  love's 
hand  gave  them  deliverance  from  love  and  strife 
into  perpetual  rest. 

III.— e  6* 


66  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

King  Mark  wept  loud  like  a  child  upon  them, 
for  he  found  a  scripture,  writ  by  Tristram's  hand 
around  the  sword-hilt  which  had  fought  of  old 
for  Cornwall,  that  told  him  all  their  story.  They 
prayed  his  pardon,  for  they  had  no  choice  of 
will,  but  were  bound  by  the  sorcerer's  spell. 
His  heart  was  molten  in  him,  and  he  kissed 
each  with  a  kiss  of  kinship. 

"Had  I  known,"  he  wailed,  "ye  had  never 
sinned  nor  died  thus,  nor  would  I  have  borne 
so  sad  a  part  in  this  doom  that  bade  you  sin 
and  die." 

He  built  a  chapel  for  their  tomb,  bright  like 
the  spring,  with  a  wealth  of  branching  tracery, 
and  there  they  slept,  wedded,  under  the  sun  and 
moon  and  the  changes  of  the  stars.  Through  the 
casements  came  the  midnight  and  the  noon-day 
to  illumine  or  to  veil  their  grave.  But  at  last 
there  came  darkness  on  these  things  also.  The 
strong  sea  swallowed  the  walls  and  tower,  and 
many  a  fathom  of  tide  gleams  and  moans  over 
the  place  where  they  were  laid  in  that  ancient 
time.  No  man  shall  look  down  where  they 
sleep  forever,  and  none  shall  say  here  once  slept 
Tristram  and  Iseult.  Theirs  is  a  peace  that 
none  who  live  may  ever  gain;  for  while  life 
and  death  last,  the  light  and  sound  and  dark- 
ness of  the  sea  are  eternally  over  them. 


,\VT\C\'A*\A\f.   'A  A 


:X'(A    CVAOA 


[.ORD    I.  VrrOS  {OWKN  MEREOfTfn. 


LUCILE. 

LORD  LYTTON  {OWEN  MEREDITH). 


LUCILE. 


I. 

Lord  Alfred  Yargrave  was  startled.  With 
an  unsteady  hand  he  had  just  torn  open  a  letter 
from  the  Comtesse  de  ISTevers  and  had  walked 
nervously  to  the  window.  The  month  was  Sep- 
tember, and  he  was  still  hngering  in  the  heart 
of  the  Pyrenees  at  Bigorre.  It  was  a  chilly 
morning  he  looked  out  upon.  The  woods  were 
brown  and  cold  on  the  hill-side,  and  the  only 
thing  abroad  in  the  streets  was  the  wind.  In- 
deed, the  prospect  was  far  from  pleasing,  and 
Lord  Alfred  was  in  a  disquieted  mood. 

"  Confound  it !"  he  muttered,  as  he  looked  over 
the  letter ;  but  he  gave  no  hint  of  the  thoughts 
which  led  to  this  exclamation,  and  turned  again 
to  gaze  blankly  out  of  the  window. 

Suddenly  his  musing  was  disturbed  by  some- 
body who  burst  open  the  door  crying,  "  A  fool, 
Alfred,  a  fool,  a  most  motley  fool !" 

It  was  my  lord's  cousin  John. 

"  Who?"  asked  Lord  Vargrave. 

69 


70  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  The  man  who  can  find  anything  better  to  do 
and  yet  degrades  himself  as  Man  by  travelling 
with  a  woman  in  love — unless  she's  in  love  with 
him." 

"  Indeed  !  Why  are  you  here,  then,  my  dear 
Jack  ?"  inquired  Lord  Alfred. 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?" 

«  Not  I." 

"  Why,  because  I  have  nothing  better  to  do. 
I'd  rather  be  bored  by  you,  my  dear  Alfred,  I 
confess  it,  than  be  bored  by  myself  That  per- 
verse golden-haired  elf  that  has  led  you  and 
me  such  a  dance  through  these  hills " 

"  Who, — Matilda  ?"  asked  his  lordship. 

*'  Yes,  of  course  ;  who  but  she  could  contrive 
to  keep  one's  eyes  and  feet  from  falling  asleep 
for  even  one  half-hour  of  the  twenty-four  ?" 

"  But  what's  the  matter  ?"  said  Lord  Alfred, 
becoming  serious. 

"  Why,  she  is — a  matter  which,  the  more  I 
consider  it,  the  more  it  demands  an  attention  it 
does  not  deserve.  It  swells  quite  beyond  the 
dimensions  which  even  crinoline  is  entitled  to 
in  this  very  small  and  too-crowded  star.  You 
read  Malthus  and  Sadler  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lord  Alfred. 

"But  to  what  purpose,  when  you  calmly 
countenance  such  a  monstrous  abuse  of  a  mere 
human  creature's  legitimate  space  in  the  world  ? 


Lucile.  71 

It  is  altogether  beyond  my  patience !"  Cousin 
John  stamped  his  foot  in  half-serious  indigna- 
tion. 

"  My  own  patience  is  worse  tried,"  said  Lord 
Alfred,  reflectively. 

"  Yours,  Alfred  ?" 

"  Eead  this,  if  you  doubt  it,  and  then  decide." 
His  lordship  handed  him  the  letter  he  had 
just  received. 

Cousin  John  read  aloud  : 

"  I  hear  from  Bigorre  that  you  are  there,  and 
that  you  are  going  to  marry  Miss  Darcy " 

"  What's  this  ?"  he  said,  looking  up  with  a 
puzzled  face. 

"  Eead  on  to  the  end,  and  you'll  discover,"  said 
Lord  Alfred,  quietly. 

Cousin  John  began  again  : 

"  When  we  parted  your  last  words  recorded  a 
vow " 

"  Hang  it !"  he  exclaimed,  "  this  smells  all  over 
of  violets  and  adventures.  Was  it  a  lock  of  your 
hair  you  promised  her?" 

"  Eead  on,  and  you'll  find  out,"  said  his  lord- 
ship. 

"  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  return  those  letters." 

"  Humph  !  letters !  the  matter's  worse  than  I 
thought.    I  have  my  misgivings." 

"  Well,  read  the  rest,  and  give  me  your  advice," 
said  his  cousin. 


72  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Eh  ?— Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes  :  '  Miss  Darcy 
will  perhaps  forego  one  brief  page  from  the 

summer  romance  of  her  courtship '   Egad ! 

for  my  part  I'd  forego  every  page  of  it  and  not 
break  my  heart !" 

"  Continue,"  said  Lord  Alfred,  without  noticing 
the  comment. 

Cousin  John  read  on : 

" and  spare  you  at  least  a  single  day  from 

your  place  at  her  feet.  I  remain  a  month  in 
these  mountains,  and  the  distance  to  Luchon  is 
short.  I  trust  you  will  feel  that  I  desire  noth- 
ing much.     Your  friend — Lucile." 

"  Bless  me !"  cried  Cousin  John.  "  The  Count- 
ess of  Nevers  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  his  lordship,  calmly. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  want  jon  to  tell  me." 

"  You  can't  go." 

"  I  must." 

"And  Matilda?" 

"  Oh,  you  must  arrange  that." 

"Must  I?"  said  Cousin  John,  perversely. 
"  Well,  I  decline  it  flat.  In  an  hour  I  expect 
the  horses  at  the  door.  Matilda  has  her  habit 
on  even  now.  Before  I  have  finished  my  break- 
fast I,  of  course,  receive  a  message  for  '  dear 
Cousin  John :  I  must  leave  the  bracelet  which 
you  broke  last  night  at  the  jeweller's ;  I  must 


Lucile.  73 

call  for  the  music.  Dear  Alfred  ia  riffht,  the 
black  shawl  looks  best.  Will  I  change  it  ?  Of 
course  I  can  just  stop,  in  passing,  to  order  the 
horse.  Will  I  see  the  dog-doctor  ?'  Hang  Beau !" 
broke  out  Cousin  John,  "  I  will  not !" 

"Tush,  tush,  this  is  serious!"  exclaimed  Lord 
Alfred. 

"  It  is  !"  said  Cousin  John. 

"  Very  well,  then,  you  must  think " 

"  But  what  excuse  will  you  make,  Alfred  ?" 

"  Oh,  tell  Miss  Darcy  that Lend  me  your 

wits,  Jack.  The  deuce !  can't  you  stretch  your 
genius  to  answer  a  friend's  needs  ?" 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Jack,  "  you  know  Ma- 
tilda is  as  jealous  as  Othello." 

"  You're  joking." 

"  No,  I'm  perfectly  serious.  Now,  why  go  to 
Luchon  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me.  My  dear  John,  I  have  no 
choice.  Besides,  I  can't  help  owning  up  to  a 
strange  sort  of  desire  to  kindle  the  last  spark 
of  my  youth  and  romance  and  all  that  once 
again  before  I  extinguish  it  forever." 

"  You  had  better  go  hang  yourself,"  muttered 
Cousin  Jack, 

*'  No, — were  it  only  to  make  sure  that  the  past 

is  shut  off  from  the  future  it  would  be  worth 

the  step  back.     Do  you  think  we  should  learn 

to  survive  that  wild  moment  when  we  consigned 

o  7 


74  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

our  heart's  dearest  to  the  tomb,  if  the  tomb 
were  not  locked  by  Fate  for  our  sake  ?" 

"  Nonsense !"  cried  Jack,  impatiently. 

"  Not  wholly  80,  Jack.  The  man  who  gets 
up  from  the  banquet  satisfied  goes  contentedly 
to  bed  and  enjoys  his  night's  rest.  But  he  who 
has  dined  with  kings  and  yet  starved  himself, 
watched  the  wine  flow  and  only  half  tasted  it, — 
he  who  has  wasted  one  part  of  life's  grand 
possibilities, — be  sure  that  man  will  bear  a 
blighted  existence  to  the  end.  You  may  call  it 
a  virtue  if  you  will ;  I  call  it  a  sin." 

"  Which  reminds  me,"  said  Cousin  John,  "  of 
that  hoary  old  Lothario  who  was  asked  at  the 
end  of  his  life  if  anything  weighed  on  his  mind. 
'  "Well,  no,'  said  he,  '  I  think  not.  My  life  was  a 
pleasant  one  in  most  things,  and  I  never  neglected 
an  occasion  for  pleasing  myself  On  the  whole. 
I  have  nothing  to  regret. '  " 

"  Well,  which  is  best.  Jack,  regret  or  remorse  ?" 

"  Why,  regret,"  answered  Jack,  confidently. 

"  No ;  remorse,"  said  Lord  Alfred.  "  They 
are  near  relations,  however :  Regret  is  a  spiteful 
old  maid ;  but  her  brother.  Remorse,  though  a 
widower,  has  been  wedded  to  young  Pleasure. 
Hang  regret,  my  dear  Jack !" 

"  Bref,  then,  you  mean  to  go  ?" 

«  Bref,  I  do." 

Cousin  Jack  pondered  a  moment. 


Lucile.  75 

"  One  more  word,  then.  Are  you  really  in  love 
with  Matilda  ?" 

"  Love  ?   What  a  question !    Of  course  I  am." 

"  Were  you  really  in  love  with  Madame  de 
Nevers?" 

"What,  Lucile?  No,  by  Jove,  never, — really." 

"Is  she  pretty?"  asked  Cousin  John,  tenta- 
tively. 

"Decidedly,"  was  the  answer;  "or  at  least 
she  was  ten  summers  ago.  She  was  as  soft  and 
sallow  as  autumn,  with  hair  neither  black  nor 
brown, — it  had  that  tinge  the  atmosphere  takes 
on  a  September  evening  when  the  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun  lingers  through  a  vineyard.  There 
was  something  in  her  set  you  to  thinking  of 
those  strange  backgrounds  of  Eaphael's,  that 
deep,  brief,  hectic  twilight  in  which  the  southern 
suns  fall  asleep." 

"  Coquette?"  asked  Jack  briefly,  as  if  in  depre- 
cation of  his  cousin's  emotion. 

"  Not  at  all.  That  was  her  one  fault.  I  could 
have  loved  her  better  if  she  had  loved  me 
less." 

"  Women  change  so,"  was  Jack's  laconic  com- 
ment. 

"  To  be  sure,"  Lord  Alfred  quietly  acquiesced. 

"  And,  unless  rumor  errs,"  went  on  Jack,  "  I 
believe  the  Coratesse  de  Nevers  was  the  rage 
last  year  at  Baden, — held  an  absolute  court  of 


76  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

devoted  adorers  and  made  no  end  of  game  of 
her  subjects." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Lord  Alfred,  with  just  a  hint 
of  annoyance  in  his  voice. 

"When  she  broke  off  her  engagement  with 
you,  it  seems  her  heart  did  not  break  with 
it." 

"  Would  you  have  her  dress  in  black  and  shut 
herself  up  in  a  convent  ?  Besides,  it  was  my 
fault  the  engagement  was  broken,  not  hers." 

"  Most  likely  it  was,"  said  Cousin  Jack.  "  How 
did  it  happen,  anyway  ?" 

"  The  tale's  soon  told.  She  bored  me,  and  I 
showed  it.  She  saw  I  was  bored,  and  reproached 
me  with  it.  I  retorted.  She  grew  vexed,  of 
course;  and  I  Avas  vexed  that  she  was.  She 
sulked,  and  so  did  I.  Then  I  became  submissive. 
She  softened  ;  but  I  hardened.  I  was  banished 
at  noon  and  pardoned  again  at  evening.  She 
said  I  had  no  heart.  I  said  she  had  no  reason. 
I  swore  she  talked  nonsense.  She  sobbed  that 
I  was  hateful.  In  short,  my  dear  fellow,  it  was 
time  for  things  to  come  to  a  crisis.  She  released 
me ;  but  I  lingered, — she  thought,  with  too  sullen 
an  aspect.  This  gave  me  occasion  to  fly  into  a 
rage,  mount  my  horse,  and  declare  myself  un- 
compreh ended.  Sq  we  parted.  You  know  the 
rest  of  the  story." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,"  said  Jack,  eagerly. 


Lucile.  77 

"  Well,  we  parted,  as  I  said.  We  could  not 
continue  to  meet, — it  was  awkward.  I  think  I 
acted  exceedingly  well,  considering  the  time  and 
place,  for  Paris  was  charming  just  then.  It 
broke  up  my  plans  for  the  whole  winter.  I 
asked  to  be  changed, — wrote  for  Naples,  which 
was  then  vacant, — got  it, — and  so  joined  my  new 
post  at  once;  but  scarcely  had  I  reached  it 
when  my  first  news  from  Paris  informed  me  that 
Lucile  was  ill  and  in  danger.  I  travelled  back 
with  all  speed,  and  found  her  recovered  but  still 
looking  pale.  I  was  seized  with  contrite  regi'et, 
and  I  asked  to  renew  the  engagement." 

"  And  she  ?"  Cousin  John  was  deeply  inter- 
ested. 

"  She  reflected,  but  finally  declined.  We  parted, 
swearing  to  be  friends  forever, — but  friends  only. 
We  kept  each  other's  letters,  a  portrait,  and  a 
ring,  with  a  pledge  to  return  them  whenever 
they  should  be  called  back." 

Lord  Alfred  stopped.  There  was  just  a  touch 
of  real  sadness  mingled  with  his  mocking  tone, 
but  Cousin  John  did  not  notice  this  in  his  desire 
to  hear  more. 

"  Pray  go  on,"  he  said. 

"  My  story's  finished,"  said  his  lordship.  "  Of 
course  I  enjoined  upon  Lucile  all  the  thousand 
good  maxims  we  invent  to  supply  the  grim  de- 
ficit in  our  days  when  they  are  left  bankrupt 

7* 


78  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

by  love.  I  preached  and  she  obeyed.  She  went 
out  into  the  world  and  took  to  dancing  again. 
I  went  back  to  my  post  and  cultivated  an  en- 
tirely new  taste  for  Antiques  and  Elzevirs. 
There,  Jack,  I  believe  you  know  the  whole  story." 

Cousin  John  was  thoughtful. 

"  You  really  mean  to  go  back,  then  ?"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Where  ?"  asked  Lord  Alfred. 

"  To  that  worst  of  places,  the  past." 

"  My  honor's  pledged  to  it.  It  was  a  promise, 
I  tell  j^ou,  when  we  parted." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Jack,  resigned,  "  what  is  it 
you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"  You  must  tell  Matilda  that  I  meant  to  have 
called  to  leave  word — to  explain, — but  the  time 
was  pressing  and " 

"  My  lord,  your  lordship's  obedient,"  said  Jack, 
with  a  low  bow,  "  but  I  can't  do " 

"  You  wish  to  break  ofi"  my  marriage,  then  ?" 
Alfred  was  hurt  at  his  persistence. 

"  No,  no !  But,  indeed,  I  can't  see  why  you 
need  take  these  letters  yourself." 

"  Not  see  ?  Would  you  have  me  break  a 
promise  my  honor  is  pledged  to  ?" 

Jack  hummed  the  words  of  a  song  :  "  '  Off,  off, 
and  away !  said  the  stranger.'  " 

"Oh,  you  scoff!"  said  Alfred,  with  a  show  of 
indignation. 


Lucile.  79 

"  Scoff  at  what,  my  dear  Alfred  ?" 

"  At  everything." 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see  the  dew  of  youth  is  quite  rubbed 
off  of  you  ;  you  have  no  feelings  left  in  you, — 
even  for  me.  You  jest  at  honor;  you  are  as 
cold  as  a  stone  to  the  voice  of  friendship ;  you 
carry  a  blight  about  with  you;  you " 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  interrupted  Cousin  Jack,  at  the 
first  semblance  of  a  pause.  "  Well,  then,  listen 
to  me.  I  suppose  that  when  you  made  up  your 
mind  to  propose  to  Miss  Darcy  you  weighed  the 
gains  with  the  drawbacks  carefully.  Now,  what 
is  there  left  but  to  stick  to  your  choice  ?  You 
want  money  :  here  it  is  ;  a  settled  position  :  it  is 
yours ;  a  career :  by  this  means  you  secure  it, 
and  at  the  same  time  you  get  a  young  and 
pretty  wife.  Why  must  you  itch  to  be  running 
away  from  all  this  to  a  woman  whom  you 
have  never  once  missed  in  all  these  years  ?  The 
letter  is  a  palpable  trap  to  my  thinking.  The 
woman  has  changed  and  yet  seeks  to  renew  her 
youthful  romance.  I'll  stake  my  last  farthing 
she's  a  coquette  to  the  end  of  her  fingers.  Per- 
haps she  simply  wants  to  win  a  triumph  over  a 
once  reckless  lover,  but  why  should  you  help 
her  ?  You  are  risking  the  substance  of  all  you 
have  schemed  for,  and  for  what? — merely  a 
mad  dream." 


80  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  But  there's  nothing  to  risk,  Jack.  You  exag- 
gerate! I'll  be  here  again  in  three  daj's  at 
most."  Lord  Alfred  was  vexed  at  his  cousin's 
stupidity. 

"  Yes,  but  how  ?"  persisted  Jack :  "  discon- 
tented and  unsettled  ;  so  sulky  your  betrothed 
will  break  off  the  engagement  in  a  huff.  Three 
days,  do  you  say  ?  But  who  knows  what  may 
happen  in  three  days  ?" 

This  was  an  unanswerable  question,  and  Lord 
Alfred  gave  it  up.  But  nevertheless  he  signified 
no  intention  of  following  Cousin  John's  counsel, 
and  his  good-natured  relative  therefore  with- 
drew from  the  contest  and  submitted  to  his  de- 
cree. Having  come  to  terms.  Jack  helped  Lord 
Alfred  to  pack  a  slender  valise  whose  dimensions 
excluded  a  large  outfit, — the  sole  concession  his 
remonstrance  had  obtained, — then  cursing  his 
stars  and  in  no  very  amiable  frame  of  mind,  he 
shook  hands  and  returned  to  Miss  Darcy. 

Before  Lord  Alfred  had  quitted  his  chamber 
he  turned  for  a  last  look  through  the  window ; 
and,  for  reward,  saw  Matilda  ride  by  with  her 
beaming  cheeks  and  golden  hair.  He  sighed  as 
he  looked  at  her.  Did  he  regret  her,  with  her 
dainty  hat  and  habit,  her  arch  rosy  lips  and  blue 
eyes  that  showed  an  impertinent  little  look  of 
wonderment,  her  round  figure  and  fair  neck 
below  the  drooping  feather  ?    I  can  only  protest 


Lucile.  81 

that  if  I  had  the  chance  of  passing  three  days  in 
the  light  of  those  eyes,  and  of  caressing  the  hand 
that  patted  that  fine  English  mare,  I  should 
grieve  deeply  to  be  deprived  of  one  little  half- 
hour  of  so  pleasant  a  pastime ! 

At  any  rate,  whatever  the  feelings  may  have 
been  which  prompted  it,  the  truth  is  that  Alfred 
Vargrave  did  actually  sigh  as  he  watched  Miss 
Darcy  ride  past  his  window. 

II. 

Notwithstanding  that  Lord  Alfred  Vargrave 
was  by  nature  vacillating  and  unsteady  of  pur- 
pose, he  despatched  a  reply  very  promptly  to  the 
Comptesse  de  Nevers.  In  it  he  signified  his  in- 
tention of  setting  forth  the  same  day  for  Luchon, 
where,  he  informed  her,  a  line  addressed  to  him 
at  Duval's,  the  hotel  where  he  meant  to  stay, 
would  find  him  awaiting  her  orders. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  he  wrote  this  he 
was  on  his  way,  giving  rein  to  his  steed  as  well 
as  his  thoughts,  through  the  blue  solitudes  of 
the  mountains.  The  September  moon,  now  half 
at  the  full,  was  unfolding  from  the  darkness, 
and  the  hills  seemed  to  watch,  as  if  well  pleased, 
the  light-streams  dancing  and  singing  down 
their  steep  marble  stairs. 

Lord  Alfred  was  pensively  puffing  his  cigar 
HI.-/ 


82  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  humming  broken  snatches  of  an  old  opera, — 
thinking  perhaps  of  the  castles  in  Sj)ain  hid 
from  his  view  by  the  rock}'^  barrier, — when,  sud- 
denly, a  horseman  emerged  out  of  the  night,  and 
80  startled  his  steed,  which  was  wandering  on  at 
will,  that  if  his  ready  hand  had  not  immediately 
seized  the  rein  both  rider  and  horse  might  have 
been  hurled  over  the  grim  precipice. 

As  soon  as  the  momentary  alarm  had  sub- 
sided and  the  ever -ready  oath  of  the  thorough- 
bred Englishman  had  safely  exploded,  Lord 
Alfred  unbent,  and  looking  no  ruder  than  such 
an  inroad  would  warrant,  surveyed  the  new- 
comer. He  was  a  man  of  his  own  age  or  less, 
well  mounted  and  richly,  though  simply,  dressed. 
He  wore  his  beard  in  the  French  fashion ;  and 
his  pale  face  gathered  force  from  the  glance  of 
a  pair  of  dark,  vivid,  and  eloquent  eyes. 

With  a  gesture  of  apology,  he  lifted  his  hat  and 
bowed  courteously,  making  some  excuse  in 
French,  which  denoted  the  Parisian  from  the 
first  syllable. 

Upon  hearing  him  speak,  Lord  Alfred  dis- 
cerned the  stranger  to  be  a  man  of  good-breed- 
ing whom  one  might  safely  meet  after  dark. 
The  stranger,  in  turn,  seemed  equally  well  dis- 
posed towards  his  fellow-traveller ;  and  thus, 
pleased  as  they  were  with  each  other,  they  rode 
on  slowly  abreast. 


Lucile.  83 

"  I  see,  sir,  you  are  a  smoker,"  said  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  allow  me " 

"  Pray  take  a  cigar,"  returned  Lord  Alfred, 
offering  his  case. 

"Many  thanks!  Such  cigars  are  a  luxury 
here.     Do  you  go  to  Luehon  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  fear,  though,  since  our  road  is  to  be 
the  same,  that  our  journey  must  be  somewhat 
closer  than  our  acquaintance.  I  am  tempted 
to  ask  your  permission  to  finish  the  cigar  you 
have  given  me  in  your  company." 

"  Charmed,  sir,  to  discover  your  road  lies  in  the 
way  of  my  own  inclinations,"  said  Lord  Alfred. 
"  I  find  the  dream  of  your  nation  in  this  weed. 
It  is  a  talisman  from  the  distant  savannas  that 
makes  all  men  who  use  it  brothers.  Who  knows 
but  the  blaze  which  broke  out  awhile  ago  from 
the  Boulevart  has  ended  where  wisdom  begins, — 
in  smoke  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger ;  then  pointing  ahead : 
"  Ah,  what  a  scene !" 

Lord  Alfred  took  a  puff  or  two  of  his  cigar 
in  silence. 

"  Nature  is  too  pretentious  here,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "  One  likes  to  be  coaxed,  not  compelled 
to  notice  such  beauty.  She  seems  to  be  saying 
too  plainly,  '  Admire  me,'  and  I  answer,  '  Yes, 
madam,  I  do ;  but  you  weary  me.'  " 


84  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"That  sunset  just  now,  though,"  began  the 
stranger. 

But  Lord  Alfred  cut  him  short  with  a  con- 
temptuous exclamation. 

"  A  very  old  trick,"  he  said.  "  One  would  think 
the  sun  would  be  tired  of  blushing  at  what  by 
this  time  he  must  know  too  well  to  be  shocked 
at, — the  world,  I  mean." 

"  Ah,  it's  so  with  all  of  us,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  It  is  the  sinner  who  knew  the  world  best  at 
twenty  who  disdains  its  follies  most  at  sixty. 
You  stay  at  Luchon?  "  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Only  a  day  or  two,"  replied  Lord  Alfred. 

"  The  season  is  over." 

"  Already  ?" 

"It  was  shorter  this  year  than  last.  Folly 
soon  wears  out  her  shoes.  She  dances  so  fast 
we  are  all  tired." 

"  You  know  the  place  well,  then,"  said  Lord 
Alfred,  turning  to  look  in  his  face. 

"  I've  been  there  two  seasons." 

"  And  who,  pray,  is  the  Belle  of  the  Baths  at 
the  present  moment  ?" 

"  The  same  who  has  been  the  belle  of  every 
place  where  she  is  seen ;  the  belle  of  Paris  all 
last  winter ;  the  belle  of  Baden  in  the  spring." 

"  Quite  uncommon !"  said  Lord  Alfred. 

"  Sir,  an  uncommon  beauty !"  exclaimed  the 
stranger,  warmly.     "I  should  say,  rather,  an 


Lucile.  85 

uncommon  character.  One  meets  women  every 
day  whose  beauty  is  equal  to  hers,  but  none  who 
have  the  charm  of  Lucile  de  Nevers." 

"Madame  de  Nevers!"  cried  Lord  Alfred, 
turning  round  in  his  saddle  with  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"  I  know — or,  rather,  I  knew  her — a  long  time 
ago — I  almost  forget,"  stammered  Lord  Alfred, 
He  was  incoherent  with  surprise  and  wonder. 

"  What  a  wit !  what  grace  in  her  language, 
her  movements !"  went  on  the  stranger,  noticing 
nothing.  "  What  play  in  her  face !  and  yet  she 
seems  to  conceal  some  deep  sadness." 

"  You  speak  like  a  lover,"  said  his  lordship, 
venturing  all  on  a  single  throw. 

"  I  speak  as  I  feel,  but  not  like  a  lover. 
What  interests  me  so  in  Lucile,  at  the  same  time 
forbids  me.  I  can  give  to  my  interest  only  the 
name  we  men  give  to  an  hour's  admiration, — a 
night's  passion " 

"  Yes,  I  quite  comprehend,"  said  Lord  Alfred, 
insensibly  relieved.  "But  this  sadness  which 
you  speak  of, — it  would  almost  make  me  afraid 
your  gay  countrymen  have  grown  less  adroit 
since  I  knew  them  in  Paris — and  terrible  rivals 
they  were  then — if  they  lack  the  skill  to  console 
this  regret.  I  take  it  for  granted,  of  course,  that 
they  did  not  want  the  will." 

The  stranger  displayed  some  irritation. 

8 


86  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  I've  heard,"  said  he,  "  that  an  Englishman — 
one  of  your  nation,  I  presume, — and,  if  so,  I 
must  beg  you  to  excuse  the  contempt  which 
I " 

"  Pray  proceed,  sir,"  said  Lord  Alfred,  coolly 
puflSng  his  cigar.  "My  compatriot,  you  were 
about  to  say, — what  was  his  crime  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  laughed  the  stranger;  "his 
folly  scarcely  merits  so  exalted  a  term.  It 
was  not  the  sin,  but  the  silliness,  I  blame  him 
for." 

"  How's  that  ?" 

"  Well,  I  own  I  hate  botany,  yet  I  admit  that 
there  may  be  some  reason  for  the  ruthless  dis- 
section of  the  botanist ;  but  the  stupid  and  mis- 
chievous boy  who  uproots  and  tramples  the 
exotics  solely  for  pastime,  one  would  wish  to 
catch  him  and  soundly  flog  him." 

"  Some  compatriot  of  mine,  then,  I  understand, 
has  injured  your  Eosebud  of  France  with  his 
cold  Northern  heart?"  Lord  Alfred  put  the 
question  tentatively  between  the  puffs  of  smoke. 

"Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  know  little  or 
nothing.  But  some  faces  bear  the  last  act  of 
a  tragedy  in  their  looks,  notwithstanding  that 
the  first  scenes  are  wanting.  It  is  not  hard  to 
divine  what  the  plot  may  have  been  and  what 
sort  of  actors  took  part  in  it.  Whenever  I  gaze 
upon  Lucile's  face,  with  its  passionless  languor. 


Lucile.  87 

I  feel  that  some  emotion  has  burnt  up  there  all 
the  health  and  hope." 

"  Humph !"  was  Lord  Alfred's  response;  then, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  see  you  have  finished  your 
cigar,  sir ;  can  I  offer  you  another  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  we  are  not  two  miles  from 
Luchon." 

"  You  know  the  road  well." 

"  I  have  often  been  over  it." 

Here  there  was  a  pause.  They  rode  on  side 
by  side  in  the  moonlight,  each  silently  following 
the  train  of  his  own  thought.  Then,  at  last,  as 
if  roused  from  a  deep  revery,  they  almost  shouted 
at  sight  of  the  Baths  which  burst  on  them 
through  the  distance,  shining  silverly  under  the 
moon.  There  were  the  long  lime-tree  alleys ; 
the  dark  paths  with  the  lamps  twinkling  through 
them ;  and  the  quaint  wooden  roofs  of  the  white 
houses.  The  clatter  of  horses  and  the  music  of 
the  wandering  bands  came  up  the  steep  hill 
at  remote  intervals,  mingled  with  the  clacking 
of  whips ;  and  here  and  there,  through  the  ver- 
dant rose-gardens,  sheltered  behind  acacias  and 
evergreens,  they  could  mark  the  white  dresses 
moving  about  and  catch  the  echo  of  gay  songs. 

At  length  the  two  horsemen  alighted  and  ex- 
changed their  last  greetings  at  the  door  of  the  inn 
I'Herisson,  well  pleased  to  have  reached  it.  The 
Frenchman  invited  Lord  Alfred  to  dinner  ;  but 


88  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

he  declined,  saying  he  had  to  write  letters  and 
felt  tired.  He  therefore  dined  that  night  in  his 
own  rooms.  He  watched  his  companion  depart 
with  an  unquiet  eye.  He  could  not  give  a  reason 
for  it,  yet  he  felt  towards  him  a  deep  displeasure. 
"The  fellow's  good  looking,"  he  muttered  to 
himself,  "  and  yet  not  a  coxcomb."  Some  ghost 
of  the  past  still  vexed  him.  "  If  he  loves  her," 
he  thought,  "  let  him  win  her."  Then  he  turned 
to  the  future,  and  ordered  his  dinner. 

Lord  Alfred  found  a  note  from  Lucile  waiting 
for  him  at  his  hotel,  which  he  secured  at  once. 

"  Your  letter  has  reached  me,"  she  wrote. 
"  Alas,  this  evening  I  must  go  to  the  ball,  and 
shall  not  be  home.  But  to-morrow,  sans  faute  at 
one,  you  will  find  me  in  and  alone.  Meanwhile, 
let  me  thank  you  sincerely,  milord,  for  the 
honor  with  which  you  fulfil  your  pledge.  Yes, 
I  thank  you,  indeed.  Lord  Alfred !  To-morrow, 
then,  at  one." 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  the  feelings  with 
which  Alfred  Vargrave  flung  down  this  note 
and  turned  to  pour  out  his  wine.  "  Yes,  Jack's 
right  after  all,"  he  muttered.    " The  coquette!  " 

"  Does  milord  mean  to  go  to  the  ball?"  asked 
the  waiter,  who  lingered. 

"  Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  You  may  keep  me 
a  ticket  in  case  I  should." 

The  wasp  settled  undisturbed  over  the  fruit 


Lucile.  89 

and  wine,  for  Lord  Alfred  had  finished  his  meal 
in  no  very  amiable  temper  and  had  drawn  his 
chair  to  the  window,  where  he  languidly  lit  a 
cigarette.  The  window  was  open,  and  the  warm 
air  waved  the  flame  of  the  candles.  The  moths 
flew  about  him  as  he  sat  brooding  alone  there  in 
the  gloom ;  but  gay  sounds  floated  up  from 
below  with  the  deepening  night.  The  lamps 
began  to  twinkle  through  the  dark  avenues,  and 
the  idlers  of  Luchon  went  past  by  twos  and 
threes.  As  he  turned  his  head  to  watch  them, 
Lord  Alfred  suddenly  beheld  his  late  travelling 
companion  passing  the  inn.  He  was  in  full 
toilet,  with  boots  varnished,  and  a  snowy  cravat, 
and  he  was  gayly  smoothing  and  buttoning  a 
yellow  kid  glove  as  he  turned  down  the  avenue. 
Lord  Alfred,  watching  above,  saw  by  the  way 
hats  were  raised  and  glances  turned  that  he  was 
a  person  of  rank  or  fashion. 

By  and  by  the  stranger's  form  was  lost  in  the 
distance,  but  Lord  Alfred  still  sat  by  himself  in 
the  ffloom.  He  had  smoked  a  dozen  or  more 
cigarettes,  and  had  thought  of  his  cousin,  of 
Matilda,  of  Lucile,  and,  not  a  little,  of  himself, 
— of  his  past  life,  his  future,  and  his  present. 
A  thousand  subjects  passed  through  his  head, 
mingling  love,  his  debts,  his  digestion,  and  even 
his  dinner.  At  last  he  concluded  the  night 
would  be  stupid  beyond  endurance  if  he  thought 

8* 


90  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

of  Bueh  matters  any  longer,  so  he  resolved  to 
get  ready  and  set  out  for  the  ball. 

Before  he  had  finished  his  toilet  he  had  spoiled 
and  flung  away  in  a  pet  half  a  dozen  white 
neckcloths.  In  drawing  them  on  he  split  up 
three  pairs  of  pale  lavender  gloves, — this  is  no 
doubt  the  reason  why,  as  he  hurriedly  entered 
the  Casino,  he  heard  the  church-clock  strike 
twelve. 

The  last  waltz  was  just  over.  The  chaperons 
and  dancers  were  in  a  fluttering  crowd  about 
the  door,  and  a  buzz  went  through  the  room  as  a 
young  man,  whose  face  Lord  Alfred  had  seen 
before  he  entered,  left  the  ball-room  with  a  lady 
leaning  on  his  arm,  who  looked  like  a  queen  in 
some  old  fairy-tale. 

The  hubbub  of  comment  and  praise  reached 
Lord  Alfred  just  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 

"ilfa  foi!''  said  a  Frenchman  at  his  side. 
"  Luvois  has  got  all  the  gifts  of  the  gods  :  rank, 
wealth,  good  looks  !  '  He  that  hath  shall  have 
more,'  and  that's  the  reason  why  he  goes  off"  to- 
night distinguished  above  us  all  by  la  charmante 
Lucile's  beautiful  eyes." 

"  Is  it  true  Luvois  will  marry  her  ?"  asked  an 
aggressively  fat  lady  of  another  at  her  side, 
who  looked  like  a  needle,  all  steel  and  tenuity. 

The  needle  seemed  as  if  it  were  about  to  drive 
a  stitch  through  somebody's  reputation. 


Lucile.  91 

"  Madame,"  remarked  a  young  man  at  her 
elbow,  "  I  am  ready  to  bet  my  new  Tilbury  that 
if  Luvois  has  proposed  the  Comtesse  has  re- 
fused him." 

The  fat  and  thin  ladies  were  highly  amused 
by  this  sally. 

"  Eefused !  What,  a  young  duke,  not  thirty, 
with  at  least  half  a  million  a  year?" 

"That  may  be,"  said  another;  "yet  I  know 
that  some  time  since  Castelmar  was  refused, 
though  he  is  as  rich,  and  a  prince  beside.  But 
Luvois,  who  was  never  before  in  love  with  a 
woman  who  was  not  a  wife,  is  now  most  certainly 
serious." 

The  music  began  anew ;  but  Lord  Alfred  felt 
that  the  ball  was  a  bore  and  returned  to  his  inn 
somewhat  the  worse  for  his  adventure. 

As  he  lounged  at  his  window  above  the  dark 
valley  musing  as  before,  spirits  of  love  were 
wandering  through  the  warm  land.  A  soft  breeze 
stirred  the  white  drapery  of  the  Avindow  and 
the  crickets  chirped  in  the  blossoming  acacia 
outside.  A  scent  of  roses  faintly  came  through 
the  night  and  the  moon  dreamed  far  away  on 
the  mountains. 

A  stone's  throw  from  the  hotel  a  white 
chalet  peeped  between  large  lime-trees  in  a  gar- 
den of  roses.  The  windows  were  open  down 
to  the  lawn  and  the  casements  were  drawn  up. 


92  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Lights  streamed  from  inside,  and  with  them 
came  out  the  sound  of  music  and  song.  In  the 
garden  was  a  table  laden  with  fruits,  wine,  tea, 
and  ices.  About  it  sat  half  a  dozen  young  men 
and  women.  Light,  laughter,  and  voices  all 
rippled  through  the  quiet  limes.  Lord  Alfred 
seemed  to  see  for  one  moment  at  the  window  the 
fair  and  familiar  outline  of  a  white  dress,  a 
white  neck  and  dusky  hair.  It  hovered  only 
an  instant  or  so,  then  passed  into  shadow,  and 
the  soft  notes  of  a  piano  floated  forth,  while  an 
unforgotten  voice  sang  a  pathetic  ballad. 

III. 

The  chalet  of  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers  at 
Luchon  was  at  the  base  of  a  mountain  of  firs 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  rose-garden.  It  was  re- 
vealed to  the  road,  but  peacefully  withdrawn 
from  its  noise ;  and  its  deep  gables  were  built 
of  sweet,  resinous  woods. 

As  Lord  Alfred  ascended  the  steep  garden 
paths,  the  noonday  sun  had  mingled  the  carna- 
tions and  heliotropes  with  the  balms  which 
floated  down  from  the  wooded  slopes  above.  A 
breeze  was  playing  at  the  windows  and  the  white 
curtains  floated  in  and  out.  The  house  was 
hushed ;  but  his  ring  at  the  door  brought  out 
an  old  negress,  whose  sable  head  shincd  like  a 
polished  cocoanut  under  the  snowy  foulard  which 


Ludle.  93 

bound  it.  Lord  Alfred  sprang  forward  eagerly. 
He  remembered  Lucile's  nurse,  whose  eyes  and 
teeth  used  to  beam  when  he  came  in  the  blithe 
days  of  yore.  The  old  woman  had  fondled 
Lucile  on  her  knee  when  in  her  infancy  she  left 
India  to  pine  away  in  Paris.  She  had  soothed 
the  child's  sobs  on  her  breast  as  she  read  the 
letter  which  told  her  that  her  father  was  dead. 
He  had  been  a  shrewd  adventurer,  strong  of  will, 
with  subtle  tact  and  soft  manners,  who  had  Hved 
a  checkered  existence,  though  he  bore  a  noble 
name.  Scarcely  had  he  settled  at  Mysore,  in 
the  smile  of  a  rajah,  whose  court  he  gained 
control  of,  and  scarcely  had  he  married  an  Indian 
wife  of  great  wealth,  who  died  in  giving  birth 
to  this  daughter,  when  he  himself  was  carried  to 
his  wife's  tomb.  His  fortune,  which  fell  to  his 
orphan  daughter,  had  secured  her  a  home  in 
France  with  his  sister,  a  lone  woman  who  was 
the  last  of  her  race. 

Lucile  neither  wished  nor  affected  to  hide  her 
half-Eastern  blood,  which  brought  to  her  strange 
character  something  almost  wild.  The  nurse 
had  parted  with  the  orphan  for  a  while  at  the 
door  of  a  Parisian  convent ;  but  later  had  gained 
her  mistress  again,  when  Lucile  had  been  mar- 
ried by  her  grim  aunt,  to  a  dreary  old  count, 
■who  had  died  sullenly  with  no  claim  upon  the 
tears  of  his  youthful  bride. 


94  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Your  mistress  expects  me,"  said  Lord  Alfred. 

The  old  woman  opened  the  draAving-room 
door  and  left  him  there  alone. 

Silence  and  perfume  rested  over  this  temple 
of  grace.  No  sound  reached  it.  The  delicate 
shades  of  the  acacias  wavered  across  the  white 
curtains.  Fragrant  white  Indian  matting  lay 
upon  the  polished  wooden  floor,  and  rich  flowers 
gathered  by  Lucile  herself  hung  in  light  olive 
baskets  at  both  door  and  window.  Lord  Alfred 
felt  that  he  stood  in  the  shrine  of  sweet  thoughts. 
All  was  pure  and  tranquil.  No  vestige  of  a 
young  woman's  coquetry  troubled  the  place. 
Everything  seemed  self-possessed  and  aware  of 
the  silence. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  by  the  window.  A  light 
breeze  lifted  the  leaves  one  by  one.  Just  then 
Lucile  entered  the  room,  but  he  did  not  see  her. 
His  face  was  turned  away  in  a  strange  revery. 

The  time  had  been  when  Lucile,  in  beholding 
that  man,  could  not  have  suppressed  the  rapture 
and  fear  which  touched  every  nerve  in  her 
heart.  Now  she  gazed  at  him  calm,  smiling, — 
perhaps  indifferent. 

Happening  to  turn,  Alfred  Yargrave  unawares 
encountered  her  face.  Her  soft,  dusky  hair 
streamed  over  her  snow-white  bodice,  and  she 
held  a  half-blown  rose-bud  in  her  hand.  A 
pensive  smile  hovered  in  her  eyes. 


Lucile.  95 

Lord  Alfred  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  surprise. 
Some  unknown  agitation — a  strange  tremor — 
confused  his  wit.  It  was  entangled  and  para- 
lyzed, and  for  once  rebelled.  He  looked  at  her 
without  speaking  a  word.  Perhaps  what  troubled 
him  most  was,  that  the  face  had  so  little  in  it  he 
remembered.  The  face  he  had  so  long  cher- 
ished in  his  memory  was  faded  with  tears. 
Grief  had  famished  the  figure  and  dimmed  the 
eyes.  But  that  gracious  and  fond  coqiietterie  of 
a  woman  who  knows  that  her  least  ribbon  is  dear 
to  him  who  beholds  it,  this  Lord  xllfred  had  never 
admired  in  Lucile  before.  The  woman  who  now 
met  his  look  without  a  thought  of  shrinking 
seemed  to  bask  in  the  sumptuous  haze  of  a 
second  summer  riper  than  the  first.  Lucile 
had  acquired  that  matchless  but  unconscious 
demand  for  homage  which  none  but  a  churl 
would  withold.  Her  figure,  though  slight,  had 
revived  everywhere  to  the  luxurious  proportions 
of  youth,  and  her  hair,  once  shorn  as  an  offering 
to  passionate  love,  now  floated  or  rested  abun- 
dantly over  her  pure  forehead  and  throat ;  under 
which,  gathered  loosely  by  a  single  violet  knot, 
reposed  the  milk-white  folds  of  her  cool  gar- 
ment. Her  simple  attire  revealed  at  all  points 
that  fine  art  which  artfully  conceals  its  own 
presence. 

Lord  Alfred  never  conceived  that  Lucile  could 


96  Tales  from  Ten  Poets, 

look  80  enchanting.  He  felt  tempted  to  kneel 
at  her  feet  and  implore  her  pardon.  But  the 
calm  smile  that  met  his  eyes  sufficed  to  recall 
the  pride  and  bitternesa  needed  to  meet  the 
occasion. 

"  Madam,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  fully  reas- 
sured, "  you  sec  that  your  latest  command 
has  gained  my  immediate  obedience.  I  presume 
I  may  consider  my  freedom  now  restored." 

"  I  had  thought,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile 
that  was  both  sad  and  gay,  "  that  you  had  long 
had  your  freedom  from  me.  I  did  not  flatter 
myself  that  you  still  rested  in  my  chains." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  do  not  jest! 
Has  the  moment  no  sadness  for  you  ?" 

"  It  is  an  ancient  tradition,"  she  returned,  "  a 
tale  too  often  told, — a  burden  sure  to  come  at 
the  end  of  all  love-legends.  At  twenty  we  be- 
lieve our  frail  vows  eternal ;  we  smile  with  con- 
fident pity  at  the  results  of  all  poor  human  love. 
The  error  is  a  noble  one.  Shall  we  blame  it  be- 
cause we  survive  it?  jSTo,  no, — it  was  the  youth 
of  our  youth,  my  lord." 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute.  He  remembered  her 
as  a  child,  blindly  yielding  herself  to  the  errors 
of  life  and  borne  down  by  the  tumult  of  passion. 
To  watch  her  now,  as  she  pronounced  the  death- 
warrant  of  all  the  illusions  of  that  life  and  lifted 
the  pall  from  the  bier  of  the  dead  Past, — this 


Lucile.  97 

woman  so  fair  and  young,  yet  her  own  self- 
survivor,  who  traced  her  Ufe's  epitaph  with  so 
cold  a  finger, — it  was  a  picture  that  deeply  pained 
his  self-love.  He  himself  knew,  no  one  better, 
the  things  to  be  uttered  on  such  subjects ;  yet 
he  bowed  down  his  head,  and  with  a  trouble  he 
could  not  control,  crumpled  the  letters  in  his 
hand. 

"  You  know  enough  of  my  nature,"  she  con- 
tinued, "to  know  that  I  do  not  recall  these 
pledges  of  what  was  perhaps  once  a  foolish 
affection  from  any  motives  of  prudence.  If  you 
have  such  a  doubt,  I  need  only  remind  you  to 
dispel  it,  that  for  ten  years  these  letters  have 
rested  in  your  hands  unclaimed." 

She  seemed  to  suggest  a  reproach  by  these 
words,  and  Lord  Alfred  looked  up  to  meet  it. 
His  gaze  had  been  fixed  with  profound  connois- 
seurship  upon  a  blue  Sevres  cup ;  but  now  he 
looked  directly  into  her  face  to  see  if  it  would 
reveal  any  jealousy  of  Miss  Darcy.  He  looked 
keenly  and  long,  but  it  was  in  vain. 

"  You  are  generous,  madam,"  at  last  he  said. 
A  slight  irony  vibrated  in  his  voice.  He  had 
looked  for  reproaches,  and  fully  arranged  his 
forces  to  meet  them.  But  the  enemy  straight- 
way changed  its  position. 

"  Come,"  Lucile  gayly  interposed  with  a  smile 
of  divine  sweetness,  disclosing  a  depth  in  her 
III.— E        g       9 


98  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

nature  he  had  never  known.  At  the  same  time 
she  tenderly  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "  Come, 
don't  think  I  abuse  the  occasion.  We  gather 
justice  and  judgment  with  years,  or  else  the 
years  were  futile.  You  shall  not  hear  a  single 
reproach  from  me.  I  have  sinned  to  myself 
and  to  the  world, — and  I  fear  to  you,  chiefly. 
The  woman  who  loves  should  indeed  be  the 
friend  of  the  man  she  loves.  Rather  than  seek 
to  allure  his  life  into  impossible  destinies,  she 
should  use  all  her  skill  to  make  his  sole  place 
in  the  world  lie  in  her  own  heart.  Alas!  I 
perceived  this  truth  too  late.  I  tormented 
your  youth  and  I  have  darkened  your  life. 
Forgive  me  the  wrong  I  have  done  for  the  sake 
of  its  long  expiation." 

Lord  Alfred  seemed  to  wander  in  a  waking 
dream.  He  found  himself  suddenly  changed 
from  a  criminal  to  a  judge  who  was  besought 
for  mercy.  In  that  moment  the  world's  fool- 
ish pride  was  as  nothing.  All  his  plausible 
theories  were  posed.  He  bowed  his  head,  thrilled 
by  the  beauty  of  the  nature  which  had  been 
revealed  to  him.  He  said  a  few  faint  words  of 
self-reproach  as  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
It  was  a  white,  delicate  and  dimpled  hand,  warm 
and  languid  as  a  woman's  hand  in  youth. 
The  more  he  looked  and  hstened  the  more  he 
discovered  perfections  before  unknown.    '''Vis 


Lucile.  99 

woman  who  had  survived  the  romance  of  which 
he  was  the  hero  seemed  more  charming  a  thou- 
sand times  over  than  of  old.  They  talked  of  the 
years  since  they  had  parted ;  Lucile  asked  many 
questions  with  a  sisterly  interest.  She  spoke  of 
Lord  Alfred's  new  life,  of  Miss  Darcy,  her  face, 
her  temper,  her  accomplishments.  Then  she 
told  with  wit  and  humor  about  the  journeys  she 
had  taken,  the  books  she  had  read,  and  all  that 
might  interest  him  ;  yet  in  everything  she  said 
there  appeared  to  him  an  amiable  irony. 

Time  flew  by  unobserved  to  Lord  Alfred.  He 
abandoned  himself  with  the  ardor  which  belongs 
to  a  mind  accustomed  to  change,  and  sought 
with  delicate  devices  to  surprise  from  Lucile  the 
true  state  of  her  heart.  But  his  efforts  were 
vain.  The  woman,  as  is  always  the  case,  was 
more  adroit  than  the  man,  and  baffled  every 
endeavor  to  entrap  her. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  ring  was  heard  from  the  hall. 
A  quick  footstep  stirred  in  the  passage.  The 
negress  knocked  at  the  door,  then  thrust  in  her 
head. 

"  The  Duke  of  Luvois  has  just  entered,  and 
insisted " 

"  The  Duke !"  cried  Lucile,  while  his  ap- 
proaching step  made  a  light  echo  outside.  "  Say 
I  do  not  receive  until  the  evening.  Explain 
that  I  have  business   of  private   importance." 


100  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

She  glanced  significantly  towards  Lord  Al- 
fred. 

At  the  sound  of  the  Duke's  name  there  had 
come  over  Lord  Alfred  a  deep  sense  of  vexation. 
He  saw  a  look  of  confusion  in  Lucile's  face, 
and  he  instantly  concluded  that  it  was  caused 
by  his  presence. 

"  Do  not  let  me  interfere  with  other  claims  on 
your  time,"  he  said,  sneeringly ;  "  allow  me  to 
wait  on  you  when  you  are  free  from  more 
pleasant  engagements ;"  but  the  words  were 
scarcely  uttered  before  he  wished  them  recalled. 
He  bitterly  read  his  mistake  in  Lucile's  flashing 
eyes.  Inclining  her  head  with  a  haughty  move- 
ment more  reproachful  than  a  direct  rebuif,  she 
resumed  her  seat,  saying  merely, — 

"  Tell  the  Duke  he  may  enter." 

Vexed  with  his  own  words  as  well  as  hers, 
Alfred  Vargrave  bowed  low,  passed  through  the 
casement  and  entered  the  garden. 

Before  his  shadow  had  vanished  from  the  room 
the  Duke  stood  at  the  door. 

When  he  was  alone  Lord  Alfred  seemed 
strange  even  to  himself.  The  last  look  from 
Lucile  had  bewildered  him.  The  Duke's  visit 
goaded  him  to  desperation.  He  had  not  yet 
given  up  the  letters.  He  must  call  again. 
He  resolved  to  stay  where  he  was  till  the 
Duke  went  out.     He  would  stay,  were  it  only 


Lucile.  101 

to  know  when  he  did  go.  But  just  as  he  had 
formed  this  resolution  he  saw,  between  the 
thick  leaves  of  the  laurels,  Lucile  and  the  Duke 
approaching  him.  His  first  thought  was  to 
seek  for  some  nook  from  which  he  might  re- 
treat from  the  garden.  They  had  not  yet  seen 
him.  The  sound  of  their  feet  and  voices  had 
warned  him  in  time.  They  were  walking  to- 
wards him.  The  Duke  was  speaking  with  the 
gestures  of  a  Talma.  Lord  Alfred  saw  at  a  glance 
they  barred  the  only  path  to  the  gateway ;  but 
an  arbor  stood  near  by,  deeply  hidden  in  foliage. 
He  slipped  in,  safe  from  observation,  and  they 
passed  on  in  front  of  him  still  conversing.  They 
paused  beneath  a  laburnum  and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  the  shade,  so  close  that  he  could  not 
avoid  hearing  their  words. 

"  Duke,"  Lucile  said, "  I  scarcely  conceive " 

"  Ah,  forgive  me !  I  desired  so  deeply  to  see  you. 
You  retired  from  the  ball  so  early  last  night. 
This  whole  week  you  have  been  pale,  silent, 
preoccupied.  Speak,  speak,  Lucile,  and  forgive 
me !  I  know  that  I  am  a  rash  fool, — but  I  love 
you !  I  love  you,  madame,  more  than  language 
can  say !  My  love  is  not  a  caprice.  It  is  strange 
to  my  nature.  It  has  made  me  a  new  being.  I 
implore  you  to  save  me.  Be  my  wife !  stoop  and 
raise  me  up  to  you  !" 

Lord  Alfred  could  scarcely  restrain  the  pang 

9* 


102  Tales  from   Ten  Poets. 

of  anger  with  which  he  heard  this.  The  laurel 
leaves  were  shaken  as  if  by  some  unfelt  wind, 
and  the  two  in  converse  started  at  the  sound.  He 
could  hear  Lucile's  low  voice,  but  its  tone  was  so 
faint  that  her  answer  escaped  him. 

Luvois  hurried  on  as  though  in  remonstrance. 

"  I  know  it,  Lucile,  but  your  heart  was  not 
broken  by  the  trial.  Eather  all  its  fibres  were 
proven  by  it.  You  may  mistrust  love,  yet  you 
need  to  be  loved.  You  mistake  your  own  feel- 
ings. What  you  may  have  suffered  can  only 
impart  more  profound  pity  to  the  love  I  feel  for 
you.   Hush,  hush  !  I  know  all.   Tell  me  nothing!" 

"You  know  all,  Duke?  Well,  then,  know 
that  I  have  learned  from  the  rude  lesson  taught 
me  in  my  youth  to  shelter  my  life  from  my  own 
heart.     To  mistrust  the  heart  of  another." 

"  Oh,  madame !"  he  answered,  "  you  trifle  with 
a  feeling  which  you  know  to  be  true.  It  is  not 
my  life  alone,  Lucile,  that  I  plead  for.  If  I  read 
your  nature  truly,  it  is  for  yours  as  well.  That 
nature  will  prey  on  itself;  it  was  made  to  influ- 
ence others.  Consider ;  genius  craves  power, — 
what  scope  is  there  for  it  here?  Gifts  less 
noble  give  me  command  of  the  sphere  in  which 
genius  is  power.  Do  you  despise  such  gifts? 
Yet  you  cannot  disdain  what  they  realize !  I 
ofi'eryou  a  name  not  unknown,  a  fortune  which 
is  worthless  without  you.     I  lay  down  all  my 


Luclle.  103 

life  at  your  feet,  and  a  heart  which  can  throb 
for  you." 

"  That  heart,  Duke,  and  that  life — I  respect 
them  both.  The  name  and  position  you  oifer, 
deserve  what  I  now  ask  you " 

"  Lucile !" 

"  I  ask  you  to  leave  me " 

"  You  do  not  then reject  ?" 

"  I  ask  you  to  leave  me  time  to  consider." 

"  You  ask  me—?" 

"  Time  to  consider." 

"  Say  one  word.     May  I  hope  ?" 

Lucile' 8  reply  was  never  known  to  Lord 
Alfred,  for  just  then  she  rose  and  moved  on- 
ward. The  Duke  bowed  his  lips  over  her  hand 
and  was  gone. 

There  was  not  a  sound  saving  the  birds  in  the 
trees.  When  Alfred  Vargrave  reeled  out  into 
the  sunlight  again  he  just  saw  Lucile's  white 
robe  flutter  away  as  she  entered  the  house. 
Scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did,  he  followed 
her  and  went  in  also.  He  was  unnoticed.  Lucile 
never  stirred,  so  wholly  absorbed  was  she  in 
thought.  Her  back  was  turned  to  the  window. 
As  he  drew  near  the  sofa  her  face  was  reflected 
from  the  glass.  Her  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  ground.  She  seemed  pale,  dejected,  and  lost 
in  deep  meditation.  The  afternoon  sunlight 
streamed  softly  over  her  drooping  shoulders. 


104  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Alfred  Vargrave  let  fall  an  icy  hand  upon  her 
arm.  It  was  as  clammy  as  death.  She  uttered 
a  cry  of  fear  and  surprise,  which  told,  all  too 
cruelly,  how  far  he  was  from  her  thoughts. 

His  whole  face  was  disturbed  with  his  effort 
to  speak. 

"  It  was  not  my  fault.  I  have  heard  all !  Xow 
the  letters — and  farewell,  Lucile!  When  you 
wed,  may " 

The  sentence  broke  short  like  a  weapon  that 
snaps  with  the  weight  of  the  man  upon  it. 

Lucile's  whole  answer  was  revealed  in  the 
flush  of  quick  color  at  her  brow. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  our  last  farewell  in  life,  Alfred 
Vargrave.  Let  us  part  without  bitterness.  Here 
are  your  letters.  Be  assured  I  hold  you  no 
longer  in  bondage." 

She  gave  a  sad  little  laugh  as  she  said  this, 
and  stretched  out  her  hand  with  the  letters. 
Angry  with  himself  at  feeling  his  anger  rise  and 
unable  to  depend  on  his  powers  of  self-restraint, 
he  thrust  the  packet  in  his  bosom  with  a  short 
sigh,  bowed  his  head,  and  departed  in  silence. 

And  Lucile  was  alone.  The  men  of  the  world 
were  gone  back  to  the  world  again.  Her  hand 
dropped,  and  out  of  it,  loosened  from  their  frail 
silken  bond,  fell  those  early  love-letters,  scatter- 
ing at  her  feet!  Her  head  was  bowed  on  her 
bosom.     She  looked  vaguely  over  these  strewn 


Lucile.  105 

records  of  passionate  moments  never  again  to 
be.  From  each  page  leaped  some  words  that  be- 
lied the  composure  with  which  she  had  rejected 
the  claims  of  those  poor,  perished  days.  But 
at  last  they  avenged  themselves,  and  she  burst 

into  tears. 

lY. 

Lord  Alfred,  lingering  beyond  his  allotted 
three  days  in  Luchon,  received  an  urgent  letter 
from  Cousin  Jack  entreating  him  to  return  to 
Bigorre,  where  his  aifairs  were  growing  awk- 
ward. He  himself  was  now  impatient  to  leave 
Luchon,  and  he  promptly  engaged  Bernard,  a 
trusty  guide,  and  set  forth  homeward  by  a  new 
route  over  the  mountains.  As  they  journeyed  on- 
ward, the  serpentine  road  unexpectedly  brought 
to  sight  a  gay  cavalcade  only  a  few  feet  in  ad- 
vance of  them.  Alfred  Vargrave's  heart  beat 
wildly.  He  saw  instantly  the  slight  form  of 
Lucile  in  the  midst  of  the  riders.  His  next  look 
showed  him  that  the  Duke  was  joyously  ambling 
beside  her.  He  did  not  know  the  rest  of  the 
group,  nor  did  he  notice  them.  They  were 
laughing  and  talking  together,  but  his  sudden 
appearance  suspended  their  gayety. 

"  You  here !"  exclaimed  Lucile  in  surprise.  "  I 
imagined  you  were  far  on  your  way  to  Bigorre. 
What  has  delayed  you  ?" 

"  I  am  on  my  way,"  he  said ;  "  but,  since  my 


106  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

way  would  seem  to  be  also  yours,  let  me  ride 

for  a  moment  beside  you "  He  stooped  to  her 

ear  and  murmured,  "  and  forgive  me !" 

By  this  time  the  troop  had  all  come  up.  Lu- 
cile  was  pale,  and  the  Duke,  observing  it,  had 
never  quitted  her  side.  Alfred  smiled.  "  He  is 
jealous  of  her,"  he  thought,  and  this  added  a 
spur  to  his  resolution  to  please  her.  He  talked 
wittily  and  unceasingly  and  was  entirely  at  his 
ease. 

At  noon  the  clouds,  which  had  been  rising 
slowly  in  the  east,  gathered  closer  and  lifted 
higher.  The  wind  changed  and  grew  chilly. 
A  confused  hissing  noise  ran  up  the  trees  as 
though  out  of  the  ground.  The  guides  sniffed 
the  air  like  chamois.  Thej'  looked  at  each  other 
and  halted,  unbuttoning  the  cloaks  from  the 
saddles.  The  aspens  rustled  and  turned  up  their 
frail  leaves  in  fright.  Everything  in  nature  an- 
nounced the  approach  of  the  tempest. 

Before  long  thick  darkness  came  down  among 
the  mountains  and  a  vivid  flash  gored  the  gloom. 
The  rain  fell  in  large  heavy  drops.  Then  the 
thunder  broke. 

The  horses  took  fright.  The  Duke's  nag  was 
far  away  in  a  moment.  The  guides  whooped 
after  him.  The  band  was  obliged  to  alight,  and 
dispersed  up  the  perilous  path. 

Through  the  darkness  and  awe  around  him 


Lucile.  107 

Lord  Alfred  could  see,  now  and  again  revealed 
by  the  fierce  glare  of  the  lightning,  a  woman 
all  alone  on  a  shelf  of  the  mountain.  She  was 
as  still  as  the  rock  on  which  she  sat.  All  terror 
and  all  love  added  speed  to  the  instinct  with 
which  he  rushed  up  to  her.  She  started  at  his 
approach,  and  the  lightning  once  again  sur- 
rounded her  with  its  flickering  halo.  Alfred 
Vargrave  seized  her  hand.  He  felt  the  light 
fingers  tremble. 

"  Look,  look !"  she  cried,  "  the  whirlwind  has 
stricken  yonder  tree  like  the  passion  that  brings 
destruction  to  the  being  it  embraces.  Alfred 
Vargrave,  the  lightning  is  around  you!" 

"  Lucile !  I  hear — I  see  nothing  but  yourself. 
I  can  feel  nothing  here  but  your  presence. 
My  pride  fights  in  vain  with  the  truth  that  leaps 
from  my  lips.  Yonder  terrible  heaven  will 
avenge  you  if  I  lie  when  I  swear  I  love.  Be- 
neath its  tempest  I  humble  my  head  and  heart  at 
your  feet.  Pardon  me,  Lucile,  for  the  past !  I 
implore  your  mercy  for  the  future.  By  the 
power  which  invisibly  touches  us  both,  by  the 
rights  I  have  over  you,  Lucile,  I  demand " 

"  The  rights !"  Lucile  drew  her  hand  from 
his. 

"  Yes,  the  rights !  For  what  truer  right  can 
belong  to  man  than  in  the  future  to  repair  the 
wrong  of  the  past  ?     I,  who  injured  your  heart, 


108  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

urge  the  right  to  repair  it!  Be  my  wife,  my 
guide,  my  good  angel !" 

He  paused.  A  swift  flush  came  over  her 
face. 

"  And  your  pledge  to  another  ?"  she  said,  in 
a  voice  marred  by  emotion. 

"  Hush !"  he  said.  "  My  honor  will  live  where 
my  love  lives.  It  were  poor  honor  indeed  to 
give  that  life  of  which  you  alone  keep  the 
heart.  Could  I  live  under  those  young  eyes 
forever  suppressing  a  lie?  Alas,  no!  Your 
hand  holds  my  destiny.  I  can  never  recall  what 
my  lips  have  avowed.  The  great  crime  of  my 
existence  has  been  to  have  known  you  in  vain. 
Speak !  Restore  me  the  blessing  I  lost  in  losing 
you!" 

She  was  silent;  but  Lord  Alfred  could  feel 
the  light  hand  and  arm  that  reposed  upon  him 
thrill  and  tremble.  Her  dark  eyes  were  half 
closed,  but  under  their  languid  fringe  was  beam- 
ing a  passionate  softness.  A  glow  of  faint  in- 
ward fire  flushed  transparently  through  the 
delicate  olive  hue  of  her  averted  cheek.  Her 
rich  bosom  heaved,  as  a  rose  will  from  the  strug- 
gles of  an  imprisoned  bee. 

Meanwhile  the  setting  sun  sent  up  his  last 
smile  to  baflle  the  storm.  The  rear  of  the 
tempest  drew  slowly  ofl"  in  retreat,  and  night 
had  already  put  forth  a  signal  star. 


Lucile.  109 

The  curls  of  Lucile's  soft  luxuriant  hair  had 
escaped  from  her  dark  riding  hat,  and  Lord 
Alfred  covered  them  with  kisses.  Neither  he 
nor  Lucile  felt  the  rain,  which  had  not  yet 
ceased. 

The  Due  de  Luvois  came  down  the  rough 
mountain  road  splashed  and  wet.  His  horse  was 
limping  and  he  made  slow  progress.  The  beast 
had  just  lost  his  footing  and  thrown  his  master 
over  the  brow  of  the  mountain ;  but  the  Duke 
had  leaped  to  a  stone  and  the  horse  had  scram- 
bled to  his  feet  again.  Both  rider  and  horse 
now  showed  traces  of  the  disaster  as  they 
heavily  footed  their  way  through  the  mist.  The 
horse's  shoulder  and  the  Duke's  wrist  were 
bruised  and  bleeding. 

It  was  late  when  the  party  at  last  descended 
to  Luchon.  Lord  Alfred  escorted  Lucile  to  her 
chalet  in  silence.  As  they  parted  she  whispered 
low  to  him,  "Alfred,  you  have  made  me  an  offer 
I  know  the  worth  of,  believe  me ;  but  I  cannot 
reply  without  time  for  reflection.  Good-night, — 
not  good-by." 

"  But  this  is  the  very  same  answer  you  made 
to  the  Due  de  Luvois  only  a  day  since,"  he 
pleaded. 

"  No,  Alfred !  not  the  very  same,"  she  said, 
with  a  trembling  voice.  "  If  you  love  me,  obey 
me.     Wait  for  my  answer  till  to-morrow." 

10 


110  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 


V. 


After  leaving  Lucile,  Alfred  Vargrave  had 
time  to  review  the  rash  step  he  had  taken.  His 
mind  wavered  between  loyalty  to  the  love  he 
had  parted  from,  in  Bigorre,  to  Matilda  with  in- 
fantine face  and  sad,  reproachful  eyes,  and  to 
this  maturer  beauty  in  Luchon,  the  choice  of 
his  youth.  He  felt  little  doubt  what  answer  he 
should  have  from  Lucile.  Her  voice  and  eyes 
still  enraptured  his  heart.  And  yet  he  could 
not  avoid  acknowledging  a  vague  sense  of  awe 
for  her  nature.  There  was  something  imknown 
behind  all  the  beauty  of  her  heart.  He  felt  that 
she  penetrated  and  prized  whatever  was  noblest 
and  best  in  himself;  but  he  did  not  feel  sure 
that  he  knew  what  remained  lofty  and  lonely 
in  her.  Then  her  life,  which  had  been  so  un- 
tamed and  free,  would  she  yield  him  her  inde- 
pendence ?  But  plunge  himself  as  he  would  into 
the  dejection  aroused  by  such  thoughts,  he 
always  escaped  by  exclaiming,  "  I  love  her,  and 
everything  else  is  as  naught !" 

His  hand  trembled  strangely  as  he  broke  the 
seal  of  a  letter  from  her  which  at  last  reached 
him.  At  the  sight  of  the  first  words  it  dropped 
from  his  hand  like  a  dead  autumn  leaf.  He 
passed  his  hand  hurriedly  over  his  eyes,  bewil- 
dered and  incredulous.      A  sharp  moan  broke 


Lucile.  Ill 

from  him.     Then  he  picked  up  the  note  and 
hurriedly  read  it  through. 

"  No,  Alfred !"  it  began.  "  If  the  glamour  of 
the  past  rose  over  the  present  when  we  first 
met,  it  has  now  rolled  away,  and  our  two  paths 
are  plain.  Those  two  paths  divide  us.  The 
hand  which  clasped  mine  once  again  belongs 
to  another.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  made  you 
forget  what  was  due  to  yourself  and  her.  Mine 
the  fault  aud  mine  be  the  repentance.  Let  me 
own  now,  in  acknowledging  the  fault,  that  I  did 
not  foresee  the  sorrow  involved  in  it.  I  own  that 
when  the  rumor  of  your  engagement  first  reached 
me  my  heart  and  mind  suffered  intense  torture. 
It  was  cruel  to  think  that  so  much  of  the  life 
of  my  life  had  been  silently  settled  on  another. 
Then  I  said  to  myself.  There  is  but  one  hope  of 
escape.  The  image  which  fancy  seems  to  fashion 
from  the  solitude  around  the  ruins  of  the  past 
is  a  phantom.  The  being  I  loved  is  no  more. 
What  I  hear  in  the  silence  and  see  in  the  void 
of  life,  is  the  young  hero  born  of  my  own  per- 
ished youth.  His  image  rests  in  my  heart  un- 
conscious of  change  and  time.  Could  I  but  see 
it  once  again  as  time  and  change  have  made  it, — 
have  proof  that  the  being  I  loved  is  really  no 
more, — then  I  should  wake  from  my  dream  and 
my  life  would  again  be  reconciled  to  the  world. 
So  we  met ;  but  a  danger  has  occurred  that  I 


112  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

did  not  foresee  :  the  danger  to  yourself!  Hap- 
pily for  both  of  us,  it  has  been  discovered  as  soon 
as  it  was  visible.  "We  meet  no  more,  Alfred  Yar- 
grave.  I  shall  be  far  from  Luehon  when  you  read 
this  letter.  My  course  is  decided.  Doubt  is  over. 
My  future  is  fixed.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  blame 
you.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  you  who  are  right. 
Best,  then,  all  as  it  is.  These  words  are  life's 
good-night  to  the  hope  of  the  moment, — no 
more !  If  a  tear  fell  upon  this  page,  it  was  a 
friend's.     So,  farewell  to  the  past  and  to  you. 

"  LrciLE." 

Thus  the  letter  ended.  The  room  seemed  to 
turn  round  and  round  in  the  mist  that  was 
scorching  his  eyes.  Grief  and  resentment  half 
choked  him.  He  passed  from  the  chamber  with 
an  unsteady  step.  He  thrust  the  letter  in  his 
breast  and  paced  under  the  long  lime-trees  of 
Luehon  in  search  of  fresh  air  and  solitude. 
Striding  on,  he  finally  reached  a  bare  and  nar- 
row heath  by  the  skirts  of  a  wood.  It  was  som- 
bre and  silent  and  blent  well  with  his  feelings. 
A  small,  ruined  abbey  stood  by  a  mineral  spring 
long  abandoned  and  unknown.  He  sat  down 
on  a  fragment  of  rock  beside  it  and  read  over 
again  the  perplexing  letter. 

As  he  read  on,  the  mist  of  resentment  rolled 
from  his  mind  and  he  began  to  feel  the  pathos 


Lucile.  113 

which  breathed  through  it.  Tears  rose  in  his  eyes 
and  a  strange,  sweet  hope  came  to  his  heart.  He 
saw  the  truth  now.  Each  word  betrayed  the 
love  which  the  writer  sought  to  conceal.  His 
love  was  rejected  for  the  sole  reason  that  he 
was  not  free  to  give  it. 

True !  he  was  not  yet  free,  but  could  he  not 
be  so, — free  as  air  to  revoke  that  farewell  and  to 
sanction  his  own  hopes  ?  He  had  only  to  speak 
the  truth  to  Matilda  and  she  would  instantly 
release  him.  Her  relations  would  welcome  a 
pretext  for  breaking  off  a  match  which  they 
had  acquiesced  in  solely  at  the  whim  of  their 
spoiled  child.  And  she  herself!  was  her  love 
deeper  than  a  first  joyous  fancy  succeeding  the 
thought  of  her  last  doll  ?  Was  she  able  to  feel 
a  love  like  that  of  Lucile's?  He  would  seek 
Matilda,  obtain  her  release,  and  then  fly  to  Lucile 
and  again  claim  the  love  which  he  would  be  free 
to  command. 

Thus  musing,  he  sat  with  the  letter  spread 
out  on  his  knee,  and  was  quite  unconscious  of 
the  angry  looks  which  an  intruder  was  casting 
upon  him.  He  neither  saw  the  wan,  stern  face, 
nor  heard  the  footsteps  passing  and  repassing 
the  lonely  spot  where  he  sat.  At  last  a  hoarse 
voice  aroused  him.  He  looked  up  and  beheld 
the  Due  de  Luvois.  With  aggressive  and  ironi- 
cal tones  the  Duke  made  a  sneering  allusion  to 
III.— A  10* 


1 14  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

• 

"  the  doubtless  sublime  reveries  his  trespass  had 
interrupted." 

"  Milord  would  do  better,"  he  said,  "  to  fold 
up  a  note  which  bears  a  handwriting  too  well 
known  to  have  failed  to  attract  my  regard." 

It  was  obvious  to  Lord  Alfred  that  the  French- 
man was  bent  upon  picking  a  quarrel.  A  mo- 
ment sufficed  for  his  quick  instinct  to  take  in 
the  situation.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  expose 
his  own  name,  or  Lucile's,  or  Matilda's  to  the 
idle  tongues  that  would  bring  down  the  odium  of 
the  world  upon  him  if  he  should  fight  this  man. 
Indeed,  as  he  looked  at  the  Duke's  haggard 
countenance  he  was  moved  to  pity  by  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  it.  He  therefore  put 
by  with  some  careless  response  each  remark 
from  the  Duke,  and  finally,  making  a  stern  saluta- 
tion, coldly  but  courteously  rose  and  turned  away. 

The  Duke  put  himself  in  the  path,  made  a 
stride  in  advance,  raised  a  hand  and  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  him. 

"  Hold,  Lord  Alfred !"  he  commanded.  "  Away 
with  disguise  I  I  will  own  that  I  sought  you 
out  to  fix  a  quarrel  upon  you.  I  can  still  justly 
do  so ;  but  I  prefer  to  be  frank.  I  admit  of  no 
rival  either  in  fortune  or  rank  to  the  hand  of 
any  woman.  I  love  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers. 
I  believe,  and  still  have  the  right  to  believe,  that 
before  you  crossed  me  she  would    have  been 


Lucile.  115 

mine.  You  return  to  her,  and  the  woman  is 
suddenly  changed.  You,  who  are  now  betrothed 
to  another!  You,  whose  name  was  coupled 
nearly  ten  years  ago  with  Lucile's,  because  of 
ties  which  you  broke !  You,  the  man  I  reproached 
on  the  day  our  acquaintance  began !  You,  who 
left  her  so  lightly.  I  cannot  believe  that  you 
love  her  as  I  love  her ;  nor  can  I  deem  that  you 
have  the  right  so  to  love  her.  It  is  plain  that 
there  is  but  one  way  to  settle  this  contest.  Need 
I  name  it  ?" 

Lord  Alfred  was  moved  by  the  earnestness  of 
the  Duke's  plea,  and  he  made  a  reply  which  he 
trusted  might  turn  aside  a  quarrel  he  felt  bound 
to  avoid  if  he  could.  He  tried  to  explain  with 
stately  urbanity  that  he  also,  at  worst  a  fair 
rival,  had  not  been  accepted. 

"  Accepted !"  cried  the  Duke.  "  Say  first 
whether  you  are  free  to  have  made  the  offer  ?" 

Lord  Alfred  was  silent. 

"Ah,  you  dare  not  reply!"  exclaimed  the 
Duke.  "  Why  palter  with  me  ?  You  do  not 
speak  because  you  cannot  deny  that  you  stepped 
in  between  us  from  mere  vanity  and  the  desire 
to  reclaim  your  lost  ascendency.  If  you  are 
sincere,  milord,  I  ask  only  one  word.  Say  that 
you  renounce  her.  Then  I  will  ask  your  for- 
giveness with  all  my  heart,  and  there  can  be  no 
quarrel  between  us." 


116  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Lord  Alfred  was  galled  and  impatient.  The 
Duke's  tone  aroused  a  strong  irritation  in 
him. 

"You  have  not  the  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "and 
still  less  the  power,  to  make  terms  and  condi- 
tions with  me.     I  refuse  to  reply." 

As  a  diviner  may  see  in  some  occult  figure 
a  fate  he  cannot  avert,  so  Lord  Alfred  foresaw 
in  a  moment  all  the  evil  results  of  the  quarrel 
which  was  now  imminent.  There,  face  to  face, 
amid  the  ruins  and  tombs,  with  a  stern  autumn 
sky  overhead  for  witness,  these  two  men  had 
met  on  the  narrow  bridge  dividing  the  past 
from  the  future.  So  small  was  the  pathway 
that  if  one  passed  over  the  other  must  sink. 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  hoofs  urged 
into  speed  smote  sharply  on  the  ear,  and  out 
from  the  edge  of  the  forest  emerged  a  horseman 
at  full  gallop.  He  appeared  to  be  a  guide,  by 
the  red  silk  sash  around  his  waist  and  the  long 
whip  slung  crosswise  behind  his  short  jacket. 
He  wheeled  his  horse  up  the  heath,  leaped  the 
rivulet,  turned  sharp  from  the  bank,  and,  ap- 
proaching the  Duke,  raised  his  woollen  hat,  then 
bowed  low  in  the  saddle,  and  delivered  a  note. 

The  two  stood  quite  astonished.  The  Duke, 
with  a  gesture  of  apology,  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  took  the  letter.  He  changed  color, 
tore  it  open,  and  read  its  contents. 


Lucile,  117 

In  a  moment  his  whole  aspect  changed.  A 
light  came  into  his  eyes  and  a  smile  played 
about  his  lips.  Lord  Alfred  watched  him  with 
surprise  as  he  turned  and  said  gayly, — 

"A  pressing  request  from  Lucile.  You  are 
quite  right,  Lord  Alfred.  You  are  not  accepted 
— nor  free  to  propose.  Perhaps  I  am  already 
accepted.  But  here's  the  letter ;  you  can  read 
it  for  yourself" 

It  was  now  Lord  Alfred's  turn  to  feel  angered. 
But  Lucile  was  not  pledged  to  him  by  any  ties 
which  could  sanction  resentment.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  took  the  letter  and  read  it. 

It  was  dated  at  Saint  Saviour,  and  ran : 
"Your  letter,  which  followed  me  here,  detains 
me  till  I  can  see  you  again.  I  entreat  you  by 
all  that  you  feel  or  profess,  to  come  to  me  with- 
out a  moment's  delay." 

Your  letter !  The  Duke  had  been  writing  to 
her,  then!  Lord  Alfred  coldly  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  Sir,  do  not  let  me  detain  you,"  was  all  he  said. 

The  Duke  smiled  and  bowed,  placed  the  note 
in  his  bosom,  and  turned  to  the  messenger. 

"Say  that  your  despatch  will  be  answered 
before  nightfall."  He  spoke  half  aloud,  then 
glanced  at  his  watch,  mounted,  and  started  back 
to  the  Baths. 

Alfred  Vargrave  stood  still.    He  was  torn  and 


118  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

distracted  in  heart.  He  turned  to  Lucile's  fare- 
well letter  to  him :  "  Doubt  is  over.  My  future  is 
fixed  now,  my  course  is  decided."  Her  course  ? 
What !  to  wed  this  insolent  rival ! 

At  that  moment  he  looked  up  and  saw  the 
Duke  riding  fast  through  the  forest.  The  French- 
man waved  his  hand  to  him  and  sped  out  of 
sight.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  dark  before  that 
man  reached  Saint  Saviour,  and  a  vague  fear 
for  her  ran  through  his  heart.  He  walked  on 
heedlessly,  but  not  in  the  direction  of  Luchon. 

VI. 

The  Duke's  horse  was  reeking  with  foam 
when  at  last  he  reached  the  door  of  a  small 
mountain  inn  on  the  brow  of  a  promontory 
overlooking  a  fierce  torrent.  He  could  see  a 
shadow  moving  in  a  glimmering  casement  above, 
and  at  the  door  stood  the  old  negress  ready  to 
welcome  him. 

"  My  mistress  awaits  you,"  she  said,  and  in- 
stantly showed  him  up  the  rude  stairway. 

In  a  few  moments  he  stood  alone,  behind  a 
closed  door,  with  Lucile. 

She  was  in  a  gray  travelling  dress.  Her  dark 
hair,  streaming  down  over  it,  was  tossed  now 
and  then  by  the  wind  which  came  through  the 
lattice.  The  dull  flame  in  a  brass  lamp  also 
waved  to  the  little  gusts  of  air,  and  by  the  light 


JJucile.  119 

of  this  the  Duke  could  see  that  there  was  a  faint 
hectic  fire  in  her  cheeks,  and  that  her  eyes  had 
the  lustre  of  fever. 

"You  relent?"  he  said.  "My  letter  has 
changed  your  plans?"  His  voice  sank,  as  if 
borne  down  with  inward  emotion. 

"  Your  letter !  Yes,  Duke,  for  it  threatened 
a  man's  life  and  a  woman's  honor." 

"  The  last,  madame,  not  f " 

"  Both,"  she  said,  firmly.  "  Blush,  son  of  the 
knighthood  of  France,  as  I  read  your  words. 
You  say  in  this  letter,  '  I  know  now  why  you 
refuse  me.  It  is  for  the  man  who  has  trifled 
with  your  heart  once  and  now  does  it  again. 
But  he  shall  not !  By  man's  last  wild  law  I  will 
seize  upon  the  right  to  avenge  the  past  for  you 
and  give  the  future  freedom.  That  man  shall 
not  live  to  make  you  as  wretched  as  you  have 
made  me!'  " 

"  Well,  madame,"  asked  the  Duke,  "  what  do 
you  see  in  these  words  to  threaten  the  honor  of 
a  woman  ?" 

"  See !  what  word !  do  you  ask  ?  Every  word ! 
"Woman's  honor  ?  Is  there  no  dishonor,  sir,  in 
a  woman  whose  smile  men  shudder  at  and  say : 
In  that  smile  there  is  a  grave  ?  No,  you  can  have 
no  cause,  for  you  have  no  right  in  the  contest.  By 
all  the  human  laws  of  man's  heart  and  by  all 
the  sanctities  of  man's  social  honor  I  forbid  itl" 


120  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

The  Duke  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  I  obey  you,"  he  said ;  "  but  let  woman  beware 
how  she  plays  fast  and  loose  with  human  woe 
and  the  storm  in  man's  heart.  Madame,  it  was 
your  duty  to  have  extinguished  the  hope  you 
saw  in  me,  but  you  should  have  done  this  from 
the  first,  for  I  feel  that  you  knew  from  the  first 
that  I  loved  you." 

This  sudden  reproach  seemed  to  startle  her. 
She  raised  a  slow,  wistful  look  to  his  face  and 
gazed  silently  at  it.  His  own  looks  were  turned 
to  the  ground.  When  the  first  wild  alarm  was 
past,  pity  crept  through  her  heart,  and  a  tear, 
falling  across  her  conscience,  awoke  it. 

"  Was  I  wrong  ?  is  it  so  ?  Hear  me,  then, 
Duke.  You  must  feel  that,  whatever  right  you 
may  have  to  reproach  me,  I  may  claim  your 
esteem  on  one  ground, — I  at  least  am  sincere. 
You  say  it  was  plain  to  me  that  you  loved  me 
from  the  first.  But  what  if  this  knowledge 
came  at  a  time  when  I  felt  most  alone  and  least 
able  to  be  so  ?  a  moment  when  I  strove  to  eman- 
cipate my  life  from  one  haunting  regret  and 
once  more  fulfil  a  woman's  destiny  ?  Do  you 
still  blame  me,  Duke,  that  I  did  not  then  bid 
you  refrain?    Alas,  I,  too,  hoped  at  that  time!" 

"  Oh,  say  that  thrice-blessed  word  again  !" 
cried  the  Duke.  "  Say,  Lucile,  that  you  then 
deigned  to  hope " 


Lucile.  121 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  to  hope  that  I  could 
give  you  a  free  heart " 

"  Oh,  Lucile !" 

"  Do  you  blame  me,"  she  went  on,  "  that  when 
I  at  last  had  to  own  to  my  heart  that  its  hope 
was  gone  forever,  I  said  to  you,  *  Hope  no 
more'  ?     I  myself  hoped  no  more." 

The  Duke  answered  with  ill-suppressed  wrath. 

"  What,  then  !  you  have  only  to  see  this  man, 
and  you  take  his  worthless  heart  back  to  yours 
which  he  wronged  so  long  ago !" 

"  It  is  not  that,"  she  murmured,  brokenly,  "  but 
I  cannot  conceal  that  I  still  remember  the  past. 
I  cannot  accept  all  your  gifts  in  return  for  a 
heart  which  is  a  ruin." 

"  Euin  though  it  be,  trust  me  to  rebuild  and 
restore  it !"  he  cried,  approaching  her. 

She  shrank  back.  The  grief  in  her  eyes  an- 
swered "  No !" 

A  fiercer  emotion  still  took  possession  of 
him. 

"  Am  I  right  ?  You  reject  me,  then,  and  ac- 
cept him  f 

"  I  have  not  done  so,"  she  said,  firmly. 

"  Not  yet — no !  But  can  you  with  as  firm 
a  voice  promise  me  that  you  will  not  accept 
him?" 

"  Accept  him  ?    Is  he  free  ?"  she  eagerly  asked. 

"  You  evade  me,  madame.  You  will  not  say 
V  11 


122  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

what  you  feel.  Might  he  not  make  himself  free  ? 
Oh,  you  blush  and  turn  away !  Dare  you  openly 
look  in  my  face  and  reply  to  one  question  ?  You 
tell  me  I  may  not  hope  :  may  he  ?  What,  si- 
lent !  Let  me  alter  the  question.  If  he  were 
released,  might  he  then  hope  ?" 

"  He  might,"  she  said,  softly. 

Those  two  whispered  words  let  out  in  a  single 
maddening  moment  all  the  fierceness  and  evil 
in  the  man's  nature.  The  wild  animal  in  his 
bosom  was  set  free.  Jealousy,  the  deadliest  of 
all  human  passions,  rushed  upon  him.  He  stared 
wickedly  about  the  lonely  place.  No  sound 
came  through  the  darkness  to  that  room  save 
the  roar  and  drip  of  the  cataract  far  below. 
His  spirit  was  driven  beyond  his  control  on  the 
wind  of  a  reckless  emotion.  He  had  thrown, 
and  missed  his  last  stake. 

Lucile  rose  from  the  place  transfigured  with 
a  saintly  scorn  in  her  countenance.  Such  a 
dread  "  Get  thee  behind  me"  was  written  on 
her  forehead  that  the  fiend  himself  would  have 
shrunk  back  abashed  into  perdition.  She  rose 
and  swept  on  to  the  door,  then  paused.  As 
though  from  immeasurable  distance  she  mur- 
mured,— 

"  Farewell !  "We  have  mistaken  each  other. 
One  more  illusion  in  my  life  is  over.  Due  de 
Luvois,  adieu !" 


Lucile.  123 

He  felt  she  was  gone  forever  from  that  heart- 
breaking gloom. 

"  Come  back ;  I  repent !"  he  cried  at  last.  But 
no  sound  disturbed  the  silence  saving  the  roar 
of  the  waters.  He  walked  to  the  window.  A 
candle  shone  from  a  closed  casement.  As  he 
watched  it  in  his  bewilderment  it  was  extin- 
guished. Then  the  sound  of  wheels  at  the  inn- 
door  aroused  him.  He  ran  down-stairs  and 
reached  the  door  just  in  time  to  see  her  depart 
upon  the  mountain  road. 

He  rushed  out  heedlessly  into  the  midnight, 
and  went  on  and  on  till  he  sank  exhausted 
among  the  dead  leaves  by  the  forest-side.  A 
glimmering  cross  of  gray  stone  stood  for  prayer 
at  the  edge  of  the  trees.  He  sank  powerless  at 
its  foot  and  hid  his  face  in  the  dark  weeds.  He 
knew  that  from  henceforth  his  whole  life  was 
divided :  behind  him  a  past  forever  lost,  before 
him  a  future  devoid  of  purpose.  He  sat  on  the 
damp  mountain  sod  and  stared  sullenly  up  at 
the  sky.  One  object  alone  glimmered  through 
the  darkness.  It  was  the  gray  cross ;  but  he 
turned  from  it  with  no  touch  of  reverence  in 
his  soul,  and  set  his  face  sternly  towards  the 
black  road. 

When  the  light  of  the  dawn  began  to  flicker 
in  the  east  he  was  grimly  riding  across  the 
forest  towards  Luchon. 


124  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Suddenly  he  beheld  the  pale  face  of  a  man, 
gray  with  the  light  of  early  morning  upon  it, 
peer  through  the  autumn  branches.  With  the 
sense  of  a  strange  second  sight  the  Duke  at 
once  recognized  the  phantom-like  face  because 
of  its  eyes.  They  were  the  eyes  of  his  rival, 
and  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  stern,  sad  in- 
quiry. To  meet  it,  a  lie  leaped  at  once  to  his  own 
eyes.  He  answered  the  wistful  look  with  an- 
other which  in  its  calm  smile  conveyed  beyond 
a  doubt  the  announcement  that  he  had  tri- 
umphed. It  seemed  to  say,  The  question  your 
eyes  would  ask  comes  too  late,  Alfred  Vargrave  I 

He  rode  by,  and  onward  out  of  sight,  leaving 
his  false  look  of  triumph  behind  him  to  rankle 
in  the  breast  of  his  foe. 

And  surely  it  did  rankle  there.  Lord  Alfred, 
scarcely  knowing  or  choosing  his  way,  impelled 
by  one  wild  hope  and  pursued  by  a  wilder  fear, 
had  that  evening  strayed  moodily  on  down  the 
deserted  highway,  and  on  through  the  rich  haze 
of  sunset  into  the  gradual  night,  which  began, 
unnoticed  by  him,  to  shut  everything  from  his 
view.  He  went  unconsciously  towards  Saint 
Saviour;  and  not  till  the  moon  had  sunk  far 
down  in  the  west  did  he  notice  the  mile-stone 
scored  on  the  face  of  the  bare  rock,  and  realize 
that  he  was  but  two  hours'  journey  from  the 
place  where  Lucile  and  Luvois  must  have  met. 


Lucile.  125 

He  looked  about  him  and  listened  for  the  sound 
of  a  rider,  but  nothing  stirred.  He  knew 
that  day  was  approaching,  and  he  resolved  to 
proceed  to  Saint  Saviour.  At  last,  the  morn- 
ing, which  broke  chilly  and  forlorn  through 
the  trees,  revealed  the  Duke  riding  towards 
Luchon. 

He  rushed  onward,  tearing  a  path  through 
the  thicket.  He  reached  the  inn  door,  roused 
the  dreaming  porter,  and  inquired  for  the  Count- 
ess, The  man  rubbed  his  eyes.  The  Countess 
was  gone. 

"And  the  Duke?" 

The  man  stared  a  sleepy  inquiry. 

"The  stranger!"  cried  Lord  Alfred.  "The 
stranger  who  was  here  last  night !" 

The  man  grinned  with  a  vacant  intelligence. 

"  He,  oh,  ay,  ay  !     He  went  after  the  lady." 

Lord  Alfred  demanded  no  more.  What !  the 
Duke  had  passed  the  night  in  that  lone  inn  with 
her  ?  Was  that  look  he  had  cast  at  him  when 
they  met  in  the  forest  thus  explained  ? 

The  day  was  half  turned  to  evening  before  he 
re-entered  Luchon,  He  saw  the  Duke  in  the 
midst  of  a  light  crowd  of  babblers.  He  was  gay, 
insolent,  and  noisy,  and  his  eyes  were  sparkling 
with  laughter.  Lord  Alfred  glided  with  swift 
and  menacing  steps  right  through  the  throng. 
The  Duke  noticed  him  and  stepped  aside.     He 

11* 


126  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

grasped  him  cordially  by  the  hand,  whispering 
low, — 

"  Oh,  how  very  right  you  were !  There  can 
never  be  any  more  contest  between  us.  Milord, 
let  us  henceforth  be  friends."  Then  his  gay  laugh- 
ter burst  forth  as  before,  echoed  loudly  by  his 
train  of  young  imitators. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  He 
felt  weary  and  ill.  What  makes  the  Duke  so 
gay?  he  thought.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  name 
which  stirred  his  whole  heart  into  a  tumult: 
Lucile  de  Nevers'  name  coupled  gayly  in  some 
light  and  free  allusion  with  the  Duke's.  Not 
so  that  it  might  give  him  the  right  to  turn 
fiercely  round  upon  the  speaker,  but  still  set  to 
an  irreverent  compliment. 

Slowly  the  world  came  gathering  back  again 
on  its  smooth  downward  course,  usurping  the 
place  in  his  soul  where  the  thought  of  Lucile 
lay  enshrined.  "  No,"  he  muttered,  "  she  can- 
not have  sinned.  There  are  women  who  love 
liberty — but  is  she  so?  I  will  not  believe 
it !  But  the  world  ?  What  would  it  say  ? 
The  look  and  laughter  of  this  man!  The  insin- 
uating question  and  slanderous  joke !  No,  she  is 
right, — we  could  never  be  happy.  It  is  best  as 
it  is.  I  will  write  to  her,  and  accept  her  fare- 
well. Must  we  then  part,  Lucile?  Ah,  I  feel 
it.    We  could  not  be  happy.     It  was  a  dream." 


Lucile.  127 

•  "With  bowed  head  and  moody  steps  he  re- 
turned slowly  to  his  inn. 

As  he  passed  by  on  entering,  Lord  Alfred 
noticed  a  travelling  carriage  drawn  apart  from 
the  gate  in  the  court-yard,  packed  with  port- 
manteaus and  mounted  by  post-boys  ready  to 
set  off.  He  ordered  his  horse,  then  slowly 
went  up  to  his  room.  It  was  twilight  and 
the  chamber  was  dark.  He  listlessly  lighted  a 
candle  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  there  a  large 
stout  visiting  card  caught  his  eye.  The  name 
was  Sir  Ridley  MacNab.  It  was  very  familiar 
to  him,  for  it  was  that  of  his  own  future  uncle- 
in-law,  Mrs.  Darcy's  rich  brother,  a  shrewd 
puritan  Scot  whose  sharp  wits  made  the  most 
of  this  world  and  the  next. 

As  Lord  Alfred  vacantly  brooded  over  the 
card,  a  waiter  put  his  head  through  the  door-way. 

"Sir  Ridley  MacNab  would  like  to  speak 
with  milord." 

Alfred  Vargrave  could  feel  that  there  were 
tears  on  his  cheeks.  He  brushed  them  away 
and  glanced  at  the  glass.  He  was  scared  by 
the  pallor  of  his  face,  but  he  said  in  a  calm 
voice, — 

"  Sir  Ridley  may  enter." 

Sir  Ridley  MacNab  had  fled  away  from  the 
cares  of  business  and  sought  the  Pyrenees  in 
company  with  his  sister  and  niece  for  a  sea- 


128  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

son  of  recreation.  He  now  found  himself  at 
Luchon,  but  was  that  night  starting  for  Bigorre. 
He  had  heard  of  Lord  Alfred's  presence  in 
Luchon,  and  that  he,  also,  was  about  to  set  forth 
for  Bifforre.  As  a  storm  seemed  to  be  threaten- 
ing,  he  proposed  that  they  should  travel  in  com- 
pany. 

Lord  Alfred  had  been  walking  restlessly  up 
and  down,  but  after  a  pause,  which  not  a  little 
surprised  Sir  Eidley,  he  answered, — 

<'  My  Mear  Sir  Eidley,  allow  me  but  a  few 
moments — half  an  hour  at  the  most — to  con- 
clude an  affair  of  a  very  urgent  nature — which, 
indeed,  brought  me  here — before  I  accept  your 
very  kind  offer." 

"Why  not?"  said  Sir  Eidley;  but  before  he 
had  quite  uttered  the  words  Lord  Alfred,  with 
intense  agitation,  had  descended,  and  was  cross- 
ing the  garden  below.  What  passed  through 
his  mind  no  one  could  tell;  but  before  another 
half-hour  had  gone  by  he  was  standing  with  Sir 
Eidley,  firm  and  composed,  with  not  a  sign  of 
agitation  in  his  face.  He  accepted  a  seat  in  the 
carriage,  and  the  two  travellers  embarked  cheer- 
fully upon  their  journey. 

It  wanted  but  two  hours  of  noon  when  the 
fellow-voyagers  passed  through  the  wild  little 
garden  in  front  of  the  small  house  in  Bigorre 
where  their  carriage  had  stopped.  Matilda,  fairer 


Lucile.  129 

than  the  garden  blooms,  sprang  to  him  at  once, 
with  a  face  of  sunny  sweetness.  She  showed 
such  gladness  and  radiant  confidence,  that  his 
whole  heart  upbraided  him. 

"  Look  up,  my  sweet  flower,"  he  softly  whis- 
pered. "  My  heart  has  returned  to  you  as  the 
bee  returns  to  the  rose." 

"  And  will  wander  no  more  ?"  laughed  Matilda. 

"  No  more,"  he  repeated.  Then  to  himself. 
"Yes,  it  is  over.  My  course,  too,  is  decided. 
"Was  I  blind,  to  have  dreamed  that  these  clever 
Frenchwomen  could  satisfy  a  plain  English 
heart  ?" 

YII. 

It  is  at  Ems  that  we  next  find  Lord  Alfred, 
and  with  him  is  Lady  Vargrave,  whom  we  left 
only  a  little  while  ago  at  Bigorre  as  plain  Ma- 
tilda Darcy.  They  seem  to  have  grown  half 
weary  of  each  other  already  though  the  honey- 
moon has  scarcely  waned.  It  may  have  been 
the  fault  of  the  life  they  led,  or  it  may  have 
been  due  entirely  to  themselves ;  but  it  was  un- 
mistakably true  that  these  two  creatures  had 
not  found  in  each  other  what  they  had  expected ; 
a  nameless  something  in  the  heart  and  mind 
was  absent ;  and  missing  it,  each  felt  a  sadness 
which  they  could  not  explain. 

But  whatever  the  mysterious  something  was, 
III.— i 


130  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

the  world  never  noticed  it  in  the  light-hearted 
beauty  and  the  gay  wit,  her  husband.  Praise 
followed  Matilda  wherever  she  went,  and  even 
Lord  Alfred  forgot  the  source  of  his  disquietude 
now  and  again  as  she  turned  to  him  blushing 
from  the  flattery  of  those  around  her.  At 
such  moments  she,  also,  would  cease  to  regret  her 
fate,  and  murmur,  "  Yes,  he  loves  me, — this  is 
love,  then, — and  yet " 

The  Due  de  Luvois  and  Lord  and  Lady  Var- 
grave  had  encountered  each  other  some  few 
evenings  after  the  arrival  of  the  latter,  in  the 
gaming-room.  The  idlers  from  England  and 
the  idler  from  France  shook  hands  cordially. 
An  acquaintance  at  Ems  is  a  treasure  to  most 
people,  and,  besides,  these  men  of  the  world 
were  both  too  well-bred  to  betray  any  discour- 
teous remembrance  of  the  past.  Their  greeting 
was  most  frank  and  pleasant,  and  their  inter- 
course became  frequent  during  the  succeeding 
days.  This,  then,  is  no  doubt  the  reason  why 
Lord  Alfred  one  night  sat  down  alone  at  rou- 
lette, leaving  his  agreeable  French  friend  and 
Matilda  together  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  great 
room. 

Lord  Alfred  began  his  combat  with  a  few 
thalers ;  but  they  ran  away  rapidly,  and  his  re- 
serve followed  quickly  in  their  rear.  As  his 
pockets  grew  lighter  his  spirits  grew  visibly 


Lucile.  131 

worse.  Finally,  as  he  watched  his  last  coin 
tumble  into  the  bank,  he  turned  away  with  a 
frown.  He  could  not  tell  why,  but  he  seemed 
to  feel  within  him  the  strange  sense  that  some 
unseen  eye  had  been  intently  regarding  him. 
He  looked  quickly  up.  Was  it  a  fact  or  a  dream  ? 
There,  across  the  green  table,  those  eyes  whose 
deep  gaze  so  curiously  answered  to  his  own ! 
What  was  it?  Some  ghost  come  from  the 
grave  ?  Some  cheat  of  his  brain  made  feverish 
by  the  play  ?  Or  was  it  really  herself, — with 
those  deep  eyes  of  hers  and  that  unforgotten 
face, — Lucile  de  Nevers? 

With  a  countenance  all  transfigured  by  sur- 
prise he  moved  towards  her.  She  looked  at 
him  with  searching  eyes.  Not  a  word  or  a  blush 
betrayed  the  slightest  emotion.  She  seemed  to 
smile  through  him  at  something  beyond.  She 
answered  his  questions  as  if  she  responded  to 
some  voice  within  herself.  She  replied  without 
hesitation  to  each  troubled  inquiry.  She  had 
come  back,  she  said,  from  her  long  hiding-place 
at  the  source  of  the  sunrise.  She  had  returned 
to  the  cities  of  Europe  once  again,  an  exile  from 
her  old  home  in  India. 

Then  pacing  onward  together  in  earnest  talk, 
they  left  the  crowd  unobserved,  but  not  wholly 
unnoticed  by  the  Duke  and  Matilda.  Matilda 
had  never  seen  her  husband's  new  friend.     She 


132  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

had  observed  by  instinct  the  sudden  menacing 
glance  which  the  Duke  had  turned  towards 
them  when  he  saw  them  meet.  The  gloom 
on  his  face  grew  so  deep  that  she  shuddered 
in  spite  of  herself  To  her  startled  inquiry  he 
made  no  reply.  In  his  mind  at  that  moment 
a  malignant  purpose  vaguely  shaped  itself, 
such  as  could  alone  spring  from  the  chaos  of 
thought  into  which  his  whole  nature  had  been 
shaken. 

"So!"  he  brooded,  "they  meet  again  and  re- 
weave  the  old  spell !  She  hangs  on  his  voice  and 
leans  on  his  arm.  She  neither  heeds  me  nor 
seeks  me  out.  What  if  I  could  show  her  that  I, 
too,  can  be  loved  by  her  own  rival,  younger  and 
fairer  than  herself?" 

Unconscious  of  the  serpent  eye  thus  fixed 
upon  them,  Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred  saun- 
tered by  in  earnest  talk ;  but  a  smile  now 
and  then  seemed  to  show  where  their  thoughts 
touched. 

Meantime,  the  Duke  had  referred  to  Lucile, 
with  that  aggressive  false  praise  which  is  meant 
to  beget  a  remonstrance,  and  then  stopped 
to  observe  the  efifect  upon  Matilda.  There  is 
no  weapon  that  slays  its  victim  so  surely  as 
praise.  Thus  a  pause  had  fallen  on  their  con- 
versation, and  now  they  were  silent  and  pre- 
occupied. 


Lucile.  133 

There  are  moments  when  prolonged  silence 
may  be  more  expressive  than  all  the  words  ever 
spoken.  This  is  when  the  heart  instinctively 
divines  what  is  passing  in  the  heart  of  another. 
And  what  was  passing  now  in  Matilda's  heart? 
What  brought  that  sudden  flame  to  her  cheek, 
and  what  weighed  down  her  head  ? 

All  the  Duke  could  discover  was  that  Matilda 
was  troubled,  and  that  his  presence  seemed  to 
increase  that  trouble.  She,  however,  broke  the 
silence  first.  She  was  plucking  the  leaves  from 
a  pale  rose  blossom  which  had  fallen  from  her 
bosom. 

"  This  poor  flower,"  she  said,  "  seems  to  be  out 
of  place  in  this  hot,  lamplit  air." 

She  bent  her  head  low  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
Duke  watched  her  caressing  the  leaves,  but  re- 
mained silent.  He  knew  this  would  force  her 
to  renew  their  talk  at  the  point  where  he  wished 
it  to  begin.  Matilda  saw  the  meaning  of  the 
significant  pause  and  lifted  her  head ;  but  her 
eyes  encountered  the  ardent  look  of  the  Duke 
and  dropped  back  abashed.  Then,  still  conscious 
of  lacking  the  assurance  which  she  fancied  her 
manners  implied  to  him,  she  took  up  again  the 
theme  she  should  just  then  most  have  avoided. 

"  Duke,"  she  said,  and  she  could  feel  her  cheeks 
burn  as  she  spoke,  "  you  know  this — lady,  then  ?" 

"  Too  well,"  he  returned, 

12 


134  Tales  froyn  Ten  Poets. 

"  True,  you  drew  her  portrait  with  emotion 
just  now." 

"  With  emotion  ?"  he  questioned. 
"  Yes ;  3'ou  described  her  as  possessed  of  an 
unrivalled  charm." 

"  But,  madame,  you  mistook  me  completely. 
You  yourself  surpass  this  lady  as  moonlight 
does  lamplight ;  as  youth  surpasses  its  best  imi- 
tations ;  as  the  fresh  and  pure  creature  in  its 
native  adornment  outvies  all  the  charms  got  by 
heart  at  the  world's  looking-glasses !" 

"  Yet  you  said,"  she  gently  persisted,  but  with 
some  trepidation,  "  that  you  quite  comprehended 

— a  passion  so  strong  as " 

"  Exactly,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  but  not  in  a  man 
who  had  once  looked  upon  you,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive or  excuse,  or " 

"Hush,  hush!"  she  said,  with  reddening 
cheeks.  "These  things  differ  so  between  men 
and  women.  It  may  be  that  the  world  pardons 
in  you  what  it  visits  upon  us  ;  or  it  may  be  that 
we  women  are  better  than  you." 

"Who  denies  it?"  said  the  Duke.  "Yet, 
madame,  you  make  another  mistake.  The  world 
may  judge  differently  of  men  and  women  in 
regard  to  its  social  enchantments,  but  not  as 
to  the  one  sentiment  which  is  the  sole  law  the 
moment  we  love." 
"  That  may  be,"  said  Matilda ;  "  but  I  think  1 


Lucile.  135 

should  be  less  severe.  Although  I  am  so  inex- 
perienced, I  have  learned  that  the  heart  cannot 
always  repress  the  feelings  which  sway  it." 

"Yes!  yes!  that  is  true,  indeed,"  sighed  the 
Duke,  and  again  there  was  a  momentary  silence 
between  them. 

At  length  he  began  slowly,  as  though  he 
needed  all  this  time  to  repress  his  emotions. 

■'  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  what  avails  a  gift  of 
beauty  like  yours  if  it  cannot  elevate  a  woman's 
heart  above  the  reach  of  doubt  and  despair,  or 
the  pangs  of  wronged  love  to  which  women 
with  less  charm  are  exposed  ?"  Then,  with  a 
quick  change  of  tone,  as  though  impelled  by 
resentment,  he  went  on :  "  It  is  whispered  you 
took  the  name  you  bear  because  you  loved,  not 
in  deference  to  convention.  Well,  madame,  that 
excited  look  on  the  face  you  know  so  well 
throughout  all  its  expressions,  that  rapturous 
look,  those  eloquent  features  and  significant  eyes 
which  that  pale  woman  so  calmly  sees," — he 
pointed  as  he  mentioned  her  to  the  door  where 
Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred  were  standing, — "  have 
you  ever  before  seen  what  you  see  now  in  that 
familiar  face  ?  No,  it  is  new !  Young,  lovely, 
and  loving  as  you  are,  are  you  really  loved  ?" 

He  looked  at  her ;  then  paused,  and  felt  that 
thus  far  the  ground  held.  The  ardor  with  which 
he    had    uttered   the   question,   thus   suddenly 


136  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

spoken,   inspired   Matilda  with  a  vague  sense 
of  fear.    She  replied,  however,  with  composure : 

"  It  is  three  years  since  I  became  a  bride,  and 
I  have  never  had  cause  to  suspect  my  husband, 
nor  ever  stooped,  sir,  to  question  his  honor. 
Yet  if  I  should  fancy  I  saw  some  moments'  for- 
getful n  ess  of  me  in  his  looks,  I  trust  I  should 
soon  overlook  it,  for  you  must  have  seen  that 
my  heart  is  my  husband's." 

Her  cheek  was  white  as  the  rose  she  held  in 
her  hand.  The  last  word  seemed  to  die  on  her 
lips.     Then  there  was  silence  again. 

A  great  step  had  been  made  by  the  Duke. 
There,  half  drowned  by  the  music,  Matilda  had 
listened  in  spite  of  herself  to  a  voice  she  should 
never  have  heard  at  all,  and  her  heart  had  been 
troubled  by  it.  The  Duke  suffered  his  eye  to 
fathom  hers  during  the  short  silence,  and  then 
resumed : 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  invade  your  thoughts 
by  disclosing  my  own  ?  The  position  in  which 
we  seem  so  strangely  placed  may  excuse  my 
frankness.  You  say  that  your  heart  is  your 
husband's, — that  you  love  him.  You  think  so, 
of  course.  I  admit  that  such  a  love  is  a 
merit.  But,  trust  me,  there  can  be  no  true  love 
without  its  dread  penalty, — jealousy.  There, 
do  not  start!  Until  now,  thanks  to  supreme 
self  control,  you  have  held  it  down,  or  have  per- 


Lucile.  137 

haps  never  known  one  of  those  fiercer  pangs 
which  engender  deep  passion.  But  if  this  be 
the  case,  is  it  not  most  cruel  to  expose  that 
happy  content,  to  the  meeting  and  receiving  of 
a  woman  whose  place  in  life  is  to  be  your 
rival  in  love?  You  will  be  unhappy  because 
you  will  deem  your  own  power  less  than  hers, 
and  I  shall  not  be  by  your  side  day  by  day 
to  tell  you,  in  spite  of  your  noble  displeasure, 
that  you  are  fairer  than  she  is, — as  the  star  is 
fairer  than  the  diamond." 

This  appeal  both  in  looks  and  language  in- 
creased Matilda's  alarm.  Still  she  spoke  with 
what  calmness  she  could  command. 

"  Allow  me,  sir,  to  express  surprise,"  she  said, 
"at  your  zeal  in  disclosing  the  depth  of  my 
own  misery  to  me." 

"  The  zeal  would  not  startle  you,  madame,"  he 
returned,  "  if  you  could  read  in  my  heart  the 
peculiar  interest  which  causes  it " 

Matilda  could  no  longer  hide  her  terror.  She 
rose  from  her  seat. 

"  I  continue  to  listen,"  she  said,  "  but  permit 
me  to  say,  I  no  longer  understand." 

"  Forgive !"  he  cried,  with  a  nervous  appeal 
of  the  hand  and  a  well-feigned  confusion  of 
voice.  "  I  forgot  that  you  knew  me  so  slightly. 
1  entreat  your  leave  to  speak  of  myself  for  one 
moment,  for  I  think  you  wrong  me." 

12* 


138  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

His  voice  sunk  and  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes 
as  he  lifted  them.  Matilda  involuntarily  sat 
down. 

"  Beneath  an  exterior  which  seems  worldly 
and  frivolous,"  he  said,  "  my  heart  hides  in  me 
a  sorrow  which  draws  to  me  all  things  that 
suffer.  Nay,  do  not  laugh  at  such  an  avowal." 
His  hand  went  out  imploringly.  "At  a  ball, 
for  instance,  do  I  seek  for  the  belle  ?  No,  but 
for  some  plain,  insignificant  creature  whom  all 
the  world  is  accustomed  to  neglect  or  oppress. 
I  console  where  I  can.  It  is  not  a  brilliant  part 
I  admit,  but  yet  it  brings  me  unalloyed  joy." 

From  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken, 
these  trite  words  received  an  appearance  of 
truth  which  might  have  affected  a  heart  much 
more  incredulous  than  Matilda's. 

"  Your  life,  it  would  seem,  then,  must  be  one 
long  act  of  devotion,"  she  said,  demurely. 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  he,  and  would  have  con- 
tinued his  self-revelation ;  but  at  this  moment, 
to  Matilda's  relief,  she  saw  her  husband  ap- 
proaching. He  had  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers 
on  his  arm.  The  Duke  turned  and  adjusted  his 
collar.  "  Good !"  thought  he,  "  the  gods  fight 
my  battles  to-night !" 

Lord  Alfred  presented  his  wife.  The  Duke 
answered  Lucile's  startled  cry  of  recognition 
with  a  bow  betokening  a  distant  defiance.   With 


Lucile.  139 

the  grace  of  kindness  which  seeks  to  win  kind- 
ness, Lucile  stepped  over  beside  Matilda,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  or  resolved  not  to  notice  the  half- 
frightened  glance  which  followed  her  move- 
ment. The  Duke  had  relinquished  his  seat  in 
silence.  The  moment  was  undoubtedly  awk- 
ward for  all  present ;  but  nevertheless,  before 
long,  Lucile's  gracious  tact  was  felt  by  every  one, 
and  the  reserve  seemed  to  melt  unconsciously 
away.  The  whole  four  sauntered,  smiling  and 
conversing,  through  the  crowd. 

As  they  approached  the  door,  the  Duke,  who 
had  fallen  behind,  was  joined  by  Lucile.  She 
made  a  little  gesture  as  if  to  say.  Let  us  feel  that 
the  old  friendship  has  survived  that  one  mad  and 
forgotten  moment.     Then  she  asked  aloud, — 

"  You  remain  at  Ems,  Duke  ?" 

He  turned  upon  her  a  look  of  frigid  and 
sullen  rebuke.  Then  with  a  significant  glance 
at  Matilda, — 

"  Perhaps  I  have  an  attraction  here.  And 
you  ?" 

Lucile  had  folloAved  his  look  and  understood 
his  boast. 

"  1,  too,"  she  answered. 

He  thought  he  heard  her  sigh  as  she  left  him 
and  resumed  her  place  by  Matilda. 

Before  long  they  shook  hands  and  parted  at 
the  gate  of  the  hotel. 


140  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

As  Lord  Alfred  and  the  Duke  returned  to  the 
Rooms  through  the  thick  alley  of  lindens,  sud- 
denly the  Duke  said, — 

"  Once  more  !  yet  once  more !" 

"What?"  asked  Vargrave. 

"  We  meet  again  the  woman  for  whom  we 
were  once  to  destroy  each  other.  Laugh,  mon 
cher  Alfred  /" 

"  It  is  not  with  laughter  that  I  raise  the  ghost 
of  that  troubled  time.  Can  you,  Luvois,  recall 
it  with  coolness  now?" 

"  Now  ?  Yes,  mon  cher.  I  am  a  true  Parisien. 
Now  the  red  revolution,  next  the  dance  and 
play.     I  am  now  at  the  play." 

"  At  the  play,  are  you  ?  Then  I  may  presume, 
Duke,  to  ask  you  what  I  have  waited " 

"  Ask  what  you  will.  Franc  jeu!  My  cards 
are  spread  out  on  the  table." 

"  Well,  then :  you  were  called  to  a  meeting 
with  Lucile.  It  was  night  when  you  started  ; 
and  before  you  returned  it  was  morning.  We 
met.  You  accosted  me  with  a  brow  betokening 
triumph.     Your  words  were,  Let  us  be  friends." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  How,  then,  after  that,  can  you  and  she  meet 
as  acquaintances  ?" 

"  What !  did  she  not  then  resolve  your  riddle 
herself  to-night  witli  those  soft  lips  of  hers?" 
The  Duke  feigned  a  deep  surprise. 


Lucile.  •       141 

"  We  avoided  the  past  to-night,"  said  Lord 
Alfred.  "  But  the  question  will  be  answered  at 
last, — by  j'ou,  if  you  will ;  if  not,  by  her." 

"  Indeed  ?  But  can  that  question  arouse  such 
an  interest  in  you  if  your  passion  for  her  is 
over?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Yargrave,  emphatically.  "  Esteem 
may  remain,  though  love  has  vanished.  Lucile 
asked  me  to  present  her  to  my  wife  to-night, — 
to  my  wife,  understand !  I  did  so.  Her  hand 
has  clasped  Matilda's.  We  gentlemen  owe  re- 
spect to  our  name,  and  to  the  woman  that  bears 
it  we  owe  a  twofold  respect.  Answer,  Due  de 
Luvois !  Did  Lucile  reject  you  ?  or  did  you 
relinquish  a  prior  claim  ?  Simply  make  a  sign 
that  you  know  Lucile  de  Nevers  is  what  you 
would  shield  your  virgin  sister  from,  and  Ma- 
tilda and  I  leave  Ems  to-morrow." 

The  Duke  paused  and  hesitated.  He  could 
tell  by  Lord  Alfred's  look  that  he  meant  exactly 
what  he  said.  "  Suppose  they  should  leave 
Ems,"  thought  he,  "  would  that  suit  me  ?  No, 
that  would  mar  all.  Besides,  if  I  do  not  explain, 
she  herself  will, — and  then,  one  should  be  a 
gentleman  before  all  else." 

"  No,"  he  said  aloud  ;  "  Madame  de  Nevers 
had  rejected  me.  I  was  mad,  and  threatened 
my  rival's  life.  She  feared  for  his  safety,  and  I 
showed  you  the  letter  she  wrote  me.     We  met, 


142  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  my  hand  was  again  refused.  The  glance 
you  mistook  was  the  mask  pride  lends  to  hu- 
miliation. And  yet,  it  has  all  proven  for  the 
best.     By  all  means  stay  at  Ems." 

The  Duke  turned  with  a  smile  and  entered 
the  Eooms,  which  they  had  now  reached.  Lord 
Alfred  strode  on  alone  in  the  darkness.  He  was 
bewildered  in  heart  and  mind.  "  And  so,"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "  it  was  to  rescue  me  from 
danger — and  I  doubted  her  for  this !  A  light 
word,  a  look, — the  mistake  of  a  moment !  Oh, 
pardon,  pardon  Lucile !"  Thought  and  memory 
rang  weary  changes  through  his  brain,  like  a 
funeral  knell,  as  he  stumbled  on  in  the  darkness. 

When  the  Duke  re-entered  the  Casino  he  was 
smiling.  He  turned  to  roulette,  played  fast 
and  lost  heavily.  Yet  he  continued  to  smile. 
The  night  deepened,  and  he  played  his  last  num- 
ber. Then  he  went  home  and  slept  and  smiled 
in  his  sleep. 

VIII. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  Lord  Alfred 
received  a  letter  from  Cousin  John,  which  gave 
him  a  great  deal  of  London  news,  mingled  with 
an  abundance  of  worldly  wisdom,  and  conveyed 
in  no  very  doubtful  terms  the  warning  that  if 
Matilda's  fortune  still  remained  in  the  hands  of 
her  uncle  McNab,  it  was  in  serious  danger  and 


Lucile.  1-43 

should  be  withdrawn  at  once.  Startling  as  this 
advice  was,  my  lord  gave  it  little  heed.  It 
reached  him  in  an  unlucky  hour.  He  cast  a 
half-languid  glance  at  his  cousin's  homilies,  read 
the  warning  without  at  all  realizing  its  gravity, 
and  cast  the  letter  aside.  In  fact,  he  was  be- 
having just  then  in  a  manner  to  have  maddened 
Job,  had  that  patriarch  known  him.  The  more 
one  would  have  expected  him  to  notice  the 
Duke's  attentions  to  Matilda,  the  less  attention 
he  paid  to  her  himself;  but  his  ardor  towards 
Lucile  increased  daily.  A  natural  consequence 
of  this  was  that  Matilda  began  to  shrink  less 
from  the  Duke  as  her  husband  drifted  farther 
from  her  aflPections.  Each  day  they  instinctively 
felt  themselves  growing  asunder.  Alfred  passed 
more  and  more  time  at  the  Rooms  and  played 
high,  losing  more  than  he  was  able.  He  grew 
feverish  and  perverse.  As  the  Vargraves  and 
the  Duke  were  staying  at  the  same  hotel,  it 
hardly  need  be  said  that  they  all  saw  too  much 
of  each  other.  The  weather  was  so  fine  that  it 
brought  them  together  every  day  in  the  garden, 
of  course,  to  listen  to  the  band.  Lucile  and 
Matilda  were  pleased  to  discover  a  mutual  pas- 
sion for  music.  Moreover,  the  Duke  was  an 
excellent  tenor,  and  Lord  Alfred  would  also,  at 
times,  when  he  was  not  too  bored,  play  Bee- 
thoven, or  Wagner's  new  music,  and  occasionally 


144  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Borae  little  thing  of  his  own.  This  and  some 
other  causes  made  the  Vargraves'  rooms  a 
pleasant  enough  rendezvous  for  the  entire  party. 

There  was  a  cool  and  verdurous  arbor  in  the 
garden,  which  offered  a  gracious  retreat  from 
the  noonday  glare,  and  here,  with  some  friends 
of  their  own  little  world,  the  gay  company 
passed  many  happy  hours.  The  men  loved  to 
smoke  there,  and  the  women  would  take  their 
work  out  and  sing  or  converse  till  the  dew  fell. 
Towards  evening  there  was  tea,  a  luxury  due  to 
Matilda,  with  ices  and  fruits. 

One  afternoon,  when  Matilda  presided,  with 
the  Duke,  a  small  German  prince,  an  old  Rus- 
sian countess,  wicked  and  witty,  and  two  Aus- 
trian colonels  for  guests,  Lord  Alfred,  who  was 
lounging  apart  with  his  last  cigarette,  saw  Lucile 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  cool  linden-trees.  He 
went  forward  and  joined  her. 

"  Thank  the  good  stars  I  have  found  you  !" 
he  exclaimed.     "  I  have  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  with  her  sweet,  serene  voice.  "  And 
I  also  was  wishing  to  say  something  to  you." 
She  was  paler  just  then  than  was  her  wont. 
Her  voice  had  a  proud  sadness  in  it. 

"You  are  ill?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"No,"  she  answered,  hurriedly.   "No,  no!" 

"You  alarm  me !" 

Her  head  drooped  down. 


Lucile.  145 

"  If,"  she  murmured,  "your  thoughts  have  of 
late  cared  to  discover  what  has  been  passing  in 
mine,  my  farewell  can  scarcely  alarm  you." 

"Lucile!    Your  farewell!     You  are  going !" 

"  Yes,  Lord  Alfred." 

"  But  the  cause  of  this  unkindness  I" 

"  Unkindness?"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes !  what  else  is  it  ?''  He  was  startled  into 
almost  rudeness. 

"  No,  no  !"  she  said,  softly.  "  Look  into  your 
heart  and  home.  Can  you  see  no  reason  for 
this,  saving  unkindness  in  me?  Look  into  the 
eyes  of  your  wife, — those  true  eyes,  too  honest 
to  conceal  the  soul  shining  through  them." 

But  his  only  thought  was  of  Lucile's  departure. 
He  told  her  with  hurried  and  incoherent  words 
how  he  had  been  defrauded  of  her  and  had  taken 
what  was  left :  the  one  life  that  could  help  him 
to  fill  the  void  made  by  her  loss.  He  pleaded  with 
her,  not  for  love,  but  for  the  hallowed  friendship 
that  might  still  subsist  between  them. 

"  May  we  not  be  friends,  the  dearest  of  friends, 
Lucile  ?" 

She  put  by  his  passionate  words  and  calmly 
reasoned  with  him.  She  too  had  dreamed  of  it, 
but  it  was  a  dream  which  always  brought  a 
fatal  awakening  to  those  who  indulged  it. 

"  The  dreams  of  my  life  are  fled,"  she  sighed. 
"  Trust  me,  Lord  Alfred,  the  best  friend  you 
III.— o       k       13 


146  Tales  from   Ten  Poets. 

have  is  your  wife.  She  is  sweet  and  yonnfj. 
See  her  now,  sitting  there!  How  tenderly 
fashioned — to  love  and  to  be  loved !" 

He  turned  sharply  away. 

"  To  be  sure  she  is,"  he  said  ;  "  but  Matilda  is 
a  statue,  a  child.     Matilda  cannot  love — " 

Lucile  quietly  smiled. 

"  Yesterday,  all  that  you  say  might  have  been 
true.     To-day  it  is  false,  wholly  false." 

"  How  ? — what  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing closely  into  her  face. 

"  I  mean  that  to-day  the  statue  has  become 
endowed  with  life.  The  child  has  grown  to  a 
woman  :  and  that  woman  is  jealous." 

"  What,  she !"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  ironical 
wonder.  "  She  jealous !  Matilda !  Of  whom 
pray?     Not  of  me!" 

"  My  Lord,  you  deceive  yourself.  She  is  jeal- 
ous of  no  one  but  you.  Trust  me,  and  thank 
heaven  that  the  passion  has  appeared  in  her  so 
lately.  Who  can  say  what  it  might  have  be- 
come if  she  had  known  sooner  what  she  has 
now  discovered." 

"Explain,  explain,  madame!"  he  cried. 

"How  blind  you  men  are!  Can  you  doubt 
that  a  young  and  fair  woman,  neglected " 

"  Speak  plainly,"  he  demanded,  as  she  hesi- 
tated.    "You  mean what?     Do  you  doubt 

her  fidelity  ?" 


Lucile.  147 

"  Certainly  not.  Listen  to  me,  my  friend. 
Your  honor  and  your  wife's  are  most  dear  to 
me.  I  am  certain  that  you  are  risking  that 
honor." 

He  winced  and  turned  pale.  She  had  aimed 
at  his  heart,  and  she  saw  that  she  had  not 
missed. 

"  Stay,  Lucile !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  in  very 
truth  do  you  mean?  Matilda — my  wife — do 
you  know  ? " 

"  I  know  that  she  is  spotless.  But  I  do  not 
know  how  far  your  continued  neglect  might 
warp  her  nature.  Jealousy  in  a  woman  is  too 
often  healed  by  a  criminal  cure." 

"  Such  thoughts  could  never  have  reached 
Matilda's  heart,"  he  faltered. 

"  Matilda  ?"  said  Lucile.  "  Oh,  no !  But  re- 
flect. There  is  rarely  wanting  some  voice  at  a 
woman's  side  to  conjure  them  up  for  her." 

"  Beware !"  he  said.  "  I  will  search  every 
corner  for  a  clew  to  your  words." 

"  You  mistake  them,  my  lord.  I  was  putting 
a  mere  hypothetical  case." 

She  took  alarm  at  the  effect  her  speech  had 
made.  He  gazed  at  her  with  a  long,  troubled 
look. 

"  Woe  be  to  him,"  he  muttered,  "  woe  to  him 
who  shall  feel  such  a  hope !  I  swear  it  should 
be  the  last  hope  of  his  life !"   The  clinched  hand 


148  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  bent  brow  betokened  the  inward  strife  she 
had  aroused. 

"  You  forget,"  she  said,  "  you  menace  only 
yourself.     You  are  the  guilty  man." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  poor  Lucile  could 
mark  in  the  droop  of  his  head  and  the  heaving 
of  his  chest  the  new  germ  of  life  and  emotion 
she  had  given  him.  New  fears  awakened  new 
hopes.  In  the  indifferent  husband  she  could 
discern  that  Matilda  had  gained  a  new  lover. 
After  some  moments  of  silence  she  extended 
her  hand  to  him. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  Lucile,  I  both  understand  and  obey  you." 
He  took  her  soft,  quiet  hand  warmly  in  his  own. 

"Thank  heaven!"  she  murmured,  turning  away. 

"  But  one  word  more,  I  beseech  you !"  he 
said.  "We  are  parting  forever.  You  have 
shown  me  my  pathway.  Where  is  your  own 
to  be  ?" 

Her  calmness  was  suddenly  and  strangely 
broken.  She  turned  from  him  nervously.  "  I 
do  not  question.  I  follow  where  heaven  leads. 
I  only  know  that  it  must  tend  far  away  from 
all  the  places  where  we  have  met  or  are  likely  to 
meet."  A  smile  sweet  as  incense  which  rises 
from  some  sacred  cup  and  mixes  with  music 
crossed  her  face. 

"Wherever   it   be,  may   all   gentlest   angels 


Lucile.  149 

attend  you !"  he  sighed,  then  kissed  her  hand 
with  deep  emotion. 

But,  as  it  happened,  that  kiss  was  seen  by- 
Matilda  with  quite  other  emotions.  Her  young 
bosom  swelled  and  her  cheeks  grew  crimson  with 
anger.  The  Duke  had  adroitly  attracted  her 
look  towards  it  by  a  faint  but  significant  smile. 

IX. 

The  stars  were  looking  down  on  the  dim 
garden  when  Matilda  next  entered  it.  She  had 
descended  alone  from  her  chamber  with  aching 
brow  and  a  vague  sadness  oppressing  her.  The 
house,  out  of  which  she  had  hurried  into  the 
open  air,  half  stifled  her  and  seemed  ready  to 
sink  upon  her  head.  The  cool  night  air,  the 
boundless  starlight,  and  the  dark  isolation 
brought  her  instant  relief 

Her  husband  had  that  day  looked  in  her  face 
and  pressed  both  her  hands.  He  had  reproach- 
fully noticed  her  recent  dejection  with  a  smile  of 
kindest  wonder.  He,  of  late  so  indifferent  and 
listless !  Was  he  startled  at  last  by  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  her?  Whence  had 
come  that  look  of  solicitous  fondness?  Would 
he  deceive  her  again  by  it?  Had  she  been 
the  sport  of  a  transparent  illusion !  She  wan- 
dered between  the  dark  trees  musing  thus,  and 
at  last  entered  the  arbor  of  lilacs  where  she 

13* 


150  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

had  so  latel}'-  sat  face  to  face  with  her  husband 
and  the  pale  woman  whom  she  detested.  The 
spot  was  haunted  with  the  evil  remembrances 
of  that  day.  Farther  off  the  acacias  were 
muttering  the  story  over  to  themselves.  Each 
word  was  a  wound.  They  seemed  to  whisper 
wild  instructions  to  her,  revealino:  man's  last 
right  of  reprisal. 

An  uncertain  image  began  dimly  to  shape 
itself  forth  in  the  darkness  in  front  of  her.  It 
came  and  went,  sending  a  faint  sense  of  peril 
through  her  senses.  At  last  she  could  vaguely 
recognize  the  man  to  whose  image  her  mind 
had  more  and  more  turned  as  her  heart  slowly 
detached  itself  from  her  husband.  She  saw 
that  it  was  the  vigilant  Frenchman. 

There  was  a  light  sound  behind  her.  She 
trembled.  She  felt,  without  turning,  that  he 
was  approaching  her.  Her  first  instinct  was 
flight ;  but  her  foot  was  as  heavy  as  though  it 
had  taken  root  in  the  soil.  The  Duke's  voice 
held  her  like  fear  in  a  dream. 

"Ah,  lady,"  he  was  whispering  close  to  her 
now,  "  there  are  meetings  in  life  which  seem 
ordained  by  fate.  Dare  I  think  by  sympathy 
also  ?  What  else  can  I  bless  for  this  good  for- 
tune? I  felt  myself  drawn  by  an  irresistible 
instinct  to  revisit  the  memories  left  here  where 
80  lately  I  had  looked  in  your  face.     And  I  find 


Lucile.  151 

you — you,  yourself — my  own  dream !  Can  there 
be  one  thought  in  common  between  ua?  If  so 
— I  who  but  a  moment  ago  felt  my  heart  un- 
eompanioned,  should  indeed  be  blessed !  To 
receive  but  a  single  word  from  your  lips " 

She  interrupted  him  quickly. 

"I  sought  a  moment's  solitude  here,  — she 
began. 

"Does  solitude  live  for  one  only?"  he  insinu- 
ated. "  If  my  heart  is  the  reflex  of  yours,  are 
we  not  alone,  even  though  we  be  two  ?" 

"  For  that,"  said  Matilda,  "  it  were  needful 
that  you  should  read  what  is  in  my  heart." 

"  Forgive  me,  then,  if  I  look  in  it  and  read 
what  lies  there." 

"  Well,  Duke !  and  what  do  you  read,  unless  it 
is  profound  weariness  and  sadness  ?" 

"  No  doubt,"  he  said ;  "  but  there  are  laws  con- 
trolling all  facts.    The  eflPeet  always  has  a  cause." 

Matilda  shrank  back.  She  suddenly  found  a 
finger  pressed  on  the  still  bleeding  wound  she 
had  that  day  discovered  in  her  breast. 

"  You  are  sad,"  he  continued.  The  finger 
pressed  with  cruel  persistence  on  the  wound. 
"  You  are  sad  because  the  first  need  of  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman  is  to  love  and  be  loved. 
You  are  sad  because  knowledge  is  sad !" 

"  What  gave  you,"  she  cried,  "  such  strange 
power  ?" 


152  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  To  read  your  thoughts  ?"  he  asked.  "  Oh, 
lady,  a  deep  and  profound  love ;  whether  it  be 
received  or  rejected,  a  true  and  intense  love 
such  as  you,  and  you  only,  could  awaken  in  my 
breast." 

"  Hush,  hush !  I  beseech  you — for  pity !" 
She  snatched  the  hand  he  had  taken  hurriedly 
from  him  in  an  instinctive  effort  to  fly  from  the 
place. 

"  For  pity  ?"  he  echoed ;  "  and  what  pity  do  you 
owe  him  ?  He,  the  lord  of  a  life  that  is  as  fresh 
as  new-fallen  dew.  The  guardian  of  a  match- 
less woman,  and  he  neglects  her — for  whom  ? 
For  a  fairer  ?  No !  This  pure  world  of  ours 
has  no  second  Matilda.  Why,  then,  be  bound 
by  a  chain  which  he  himself  wantonly  breaks? 
Why  repel  a  love  which  3-ou  have  but  to  stretch 
forth  your  hand  and  take  ?" 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush,  sir !"  Matilda  cried.  "  Is 
not  Alfred  your  friend  and  am  I  not  his  wife?" 

"  And  have  not  I  respected  his  rights  till  he 
himself  neglected  yours  as  a  wife  ?  Do  you  think 
I  have  loved  you  for  only  three  days  ?  My  love 
may  have  grown  since  I  first  felt  the  spell  of 
your  eyes,  but  oh,  believe  me,  I  loved  you  before 
I  knew  your  eyes  could  weep.  I  ask  no  re- 
sponse :  I  only  ask  to  live  in  your  life  and  to 
feel  with  you  when  you  are  in  sorrow." 

"  Leave  me,  leave  me !"  she  gasped  in  a  voice 


Lucile.  153 

thick  from  emotion.  "  For  pity's  sake,  Duke, 
let  me  go !  We  should  both  be  to  blame  if  I 
lingered." 

"To  blame?  Yes,  no  doubt!"  he  answered. 
"  If  your  husband's  love  had  forbidden  you  to 
hope.  But  he  signs  your  release  by  the  hand 
of  another.  Who  knows  when  I  may  see  you 
alone  again,  to  avow  the  thoughts  that  are 
pining  for  utterance  ?" 

"  Duke,  Duke !  For  heaven's  sake  let  me  go ! 
It  is  late.  I  must  return  to  my  lord."  She 
struggled  to  get  away,  but  he  detained  her 
still. 

"  To  your  lord  ?"  he  repeated,  with  a  lingering 
reproach.  "Do  you  think  he  awaits  you?  At 
this  moment  his  looks  are  seeking  another  face. 
Other  ears  are  listening  to  his  soft  speeches." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir !"  A  calm,  severe, 
and  sad  voice  spoke  close  by  them.  "  You  are 
mistaken  :  she  is  here!" 

The  Duke  and  Matilda  started  up. 

"  Lucile !" 

Matilda  felt  herself  grow  dizzy  as  she  gave  a 
half-stifled  scream. 

"  Ho,  oh  !  Eavesdropping,  nxadame  ?"  cried 
the  Duke.    "  You  were  listening,  then  ?" 

"  Say,  rather,  that  I  heard  without  wishing 
it." 

"  Belle  Comtesse,"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  rage 


154  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

which  betokened  that  he  was  baffled,  "you 
know  that  your  place  is  not  here." 

"  Duke,"  she  answered,  calmly,  "  my  place  is 
wherever  my  duty  is.  Therefore  at  this  mo- 
ment my  place  is  here.  This  morning,  lady, 
my  place  was  beside  your  husband  because  I 
felt  that  heaven  yet  spared  me  time  to  save  him 
the  love  of  an  innocent  wife." 

She  turned  to  Matilda  and  lightly  laid  her 
soft,  quiet  hand  on  her. 

"  It  is  the  honor  which  that  husband  has  con- 
fided in  you  I  have  striven  to  save  to-night. 
Due  de  Luvois,  what  say  you  ? — is  my  place  not 
here?"  She  caught  Matilda's  hand,  wound  one 
arm  around  her  waist,  and  gently  drew  her 
away.  The  Duke  stood  confounded.  He  did 
not  follow  them.  Before  they  had  reached  the 
house,  Lucile  could  feel  her  tender  burden  sink 
and  falter  beside  her.  She  knelt  down,  flung 
her  arms  about  Matilda,  and  pressed  to  her 
own  bosom  the  poor  heart  beating  against  hers. 

"  In  the  name  of  your  husband,  dear  lady," 
said  Lucile,  "  in  your  mother's  name,  be  brave ! 
Lift  your  head.  Those  blushes  arc  noble.  Never 
trust  to  the  maxim  that  the  husband's  fault 
conceals  the  wife's.  Take  refuge  .in  silence. 
Kneel  and  pray  and  hope !" 

"Saved,  Lucile!"  sobbed  Matilda,  "but  to 
what  fate  ?     Tears  and  prayers,  but  no  hope." 


Lucile.  155 

"  Hush !  Your  husband  will  return  to  you. 
Do  not  doubt  it.  You  were  both  chilled,  not 
by  the  absence  of  love,  but  through  ignorance 
how  love  is  nourished  by  itself.  Henceforth 
your  heart  will  be  worthy  to  receive  it,  since 
it  knows  how  to  grant  it." 

"  What  gives  you  such  power  over  me  that  I 
ttm  thus  drawn  to  obey  you  ?  What  are  you, 
Lucile?" 

Matilda  sighed  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
pale  face  above  her.  A  deep  sadness  passed 
suddenly  through  it. 

"  The  pupil  of  sorrow,"  Lucile  answered,  with 
a  pensive  smile. 

"  Of  sorrow  ?"  exclaimed  Matilda.  "  Oh,  con- 
fide in  me !  I  should  find  guidance,  in  all  you 
told  me,  for  my  own  aflliction." 

"  And  I  consolation,"  said  Lucile.  "  Few  tears 
have  flowed  for  me  in  the  days  gone  by." 

Matilda  seized  her  hand  and  lifted  her  up,  and 
they  entered  the  house  together.  They  went 
to  Matilda's  room.  A  lamp  of  white  alabaster 
was  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  The  casement 
opened  into  the  garden.  The  pale,  cool  moon- 
light streamed  in  through  it.  A  single  nightin- 
gale sanai;  in  the  laurels.  The  two  women,  hand 
in  hand,  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  unseen 
save  by  guardian  angels. 


156  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 


"When  Lord  Alfred  returned  to  the  salon  that 
night  he  found  it  deserted.  The  lamp  burned 
dimly,  as  though  out  of  humor  at  having  to 
light  an  empty  room.  He  sat  alone  by  the 
window  and  endeavored  to  think.  But  his 
mind  was  disturbed,  and  for  half  an  hour  he 
brooded  bitterly  with  his  head  bowed  down. 
Once  he  rose  and  opened  the  door  and  wistfdlly 
looked  along  the  passage  towards  Matilda's 
room.  But  with  a  sigh  he  crept  back  again  to 
his  seat.  His  arms  fell  loosely  at  his  side.  His 
head  drooped  to  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  were 
vaguely  fixed  on  impalpable  space. 

How  long  he  had  thus  sat  there  he  could  not 
have  told,  when,  on  a  sudden,  he  started  up  as 
though  he  had  been  shot.  A  familiar  voice  was 
making  a  great  noise  in  the  passage.  It  was  an 
English  voice  with  a  round  English  accent.  The 
complaint  of  an  injured  cab-driver  mingled  with 
it,  demanding  more  fare.  Then  came  the  hur- 
ried steps  of  no  diminutive  foot,  and  the  door 
was  flung  open.  On  the  threshold  Lord  Alfred 
was  seized  by  Cousin  John,  who  greeted  him 
with  a  frenzy  of  affectionate  hugs.  As  soon  as 
he  could  escape  Lord  Alfred  drew  his  cousin  to 
a  chair,  and,  seating  himself  opposite,  the  two 
scanned  each  other  eagerly.     Alfred  saw  that 


Lucile.  157 

John   was    affected   with    unwonted    emotion. 
There  was  certainly  something  wrong. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  What  have  you  to  tell 
me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ?" 

"  Heard  what  ?" 

"  About  this  sad  business " 

"I?    No." 

"  You  received  my  last  letter,  Alfred  ?" 

"  I  think  so.    If  not,  what  then  ?" 

"  You  have  acted  upon  it  ?" 

"On  what?" 

"  The  advice  I  gave  you " 

"  Advice  ? — let  me  see :  you  are  always  giv- 
ing me  advice,  Jack.  About  Parliament,  wasn't 
it?" 

"  Hang  Parliament !  No.  The  bank,  the  bank, 
Alfred !" 

"  What  bank  ?" 

"Heavens!  I  know  you  are  careless,  but 
surely  you  have  not  forgotten — or  neglected — 
I  warned  you  of  the  danger.  You  have  at  least 
withdrawn  those  deposits  ?" 

"No;  I  meant  to  have  written  to-day.  But 
I'll  write  to-morrow,  positively." 

"To-morrow?    But,  Alfred,  it  is  too  late." 

"  Mercy  save  us !"  cried  Lord  Alfred,  waking 
up  to  the  gravity  of  the  situation.     "  You  don't 

mean  to  say " 

14 


158  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

«  Yes,  I  do." 

"What!  Sir  Eidley?" 

"  Smashed,  broken,  blown  up,  bolted  too !" 

"  But  his  own  niece  ?  In  heaven's  name, 
Jack " 

"  Oh,  I  told  you  the  old  hypocrite  would." 

"  But  surely  you  can't  mean  we  are  ruined  ?" 
Lord  Alfred  was  transfixed  with  dismay  and 
astonishment. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Cousin  Jack,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded in  a  business-like  way  to  reveal  the 
situation  in  detail :  "  About  a  fortnight  ago 
there  was  a  report  about  town  that  made  me 
most  apprehensive.  I  wrote  at  once  and 
warned  you.  My  forebodings  were  confirmed 
about  five  days  ago  by  a  run  on  the  bank.  I 
drove  down  to  the  city  at  once.  The  door 
was  closed,  ^he  bank  had  stopped  payment 
at  four  o'clock.  Next  morning  the  failure 
was  known  to  be  a  fraud.  A  warrant  was 
out  for  MacNab,  but  he  had  fled  to  the  conti- 
nent. I  endeavored  to  get  some  information, 
but  as  yet  have  learned  nothing,  and  so  I 
joined  you  as  quickly  as  I  could  with  the 
news." 

He  stopped  here,  aghast  at  the  change  in  Lord 
Alfred,  who  had  grown  livid. 

"  Courage,  courage !"  he  said,  "  bear  the  blow 
like  a  man." 


Lucile.  159 

"  I  bear  it,"  said  Alfred.  "  But,  Matilda,  the 
blow  is  aimed  at  her."  His  head  seemed  forced 
down  by  some  unseen  weight. 

<'  Matilda  ?"  said  Cousin  Jack.  "  Pooh,  pooh ! 
I  half  think  I  know  the  girl  better  than  you  do 
yourself  She  has  courage  enough  and  to  spare. 
She  cares  less  than  most  women  for  luxury  and 
nonsense." 

"But  the  fault  was  mine,"  persisted  Lord 
Alfred. 

"  Well,  let  it  be  yours  to  repair  it,  then.  If 
you  did  not  avert  it,  help  to  soften  it." 

"  I  might  have  averted  it,"  said  his  lordship, 
ruefully. 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Cousin  John;  "but  now 
there  is  no  use  of  considering  that.  You  must 
stir  yourself  for  her  sake  ;  something  may  yet 
be  saved  from  the  wreck." 

"  Oh,  Jack,  I  have  been  a  brute,  idiot !"  wailed 
Lord  Alfred.  "  I  have  sinned,  and  against  her. 
I  have  been  heedless,  blind,  and  now  I  see  all 
things  in  a  flash." 

He  bowed  his  head  low  on  the  table  as  if  to 
shut  out  a  hated  vision.  The  great  tears  rolled 
in  silence  down  his  face.  Cousin  John  rose 
without  speaking  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
long  room,  much  afflicted  in  his  own  cordial 
heart  for  Matilda. 

At  last  he  bent  over  his  cousin,  whose  sobs 


160  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

betokened  the  pain  he  was  enduring,  and  sud- 
denly laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Where  is  she?"  he  asked. 

Lord  Alfred  lifted  a  face  disfigured  with 
tears  and  gazed  vacantly  at  him. 

"  Where  is  she?"  repeated  his  cousin. 

Lord  Alfred  motioned  to  the  door. 

"  There,  I  think,"  he  said. 

Cousin  John  relapsed  into  his  own  cogitations. 
Then,  at  last,  a  time-piece  struck  twelve,  which 
drew  his  attention  to  the  dial.  He  quietly  put 
his  arm  around  Lord  Alfred's  neck  and  drew 
his  hands  down  from  his  face. 

"  It  is  time  that  she  should  know  what  has 
happened,"  was  all  he  said. 

Lord  Alfred  started  at  once  to  his  feet.  Wan 
and  distorted  as  his  face  was,  he  looked  more 
than  ever  like  a  man.  He  was  strong  for  once 
in  his  own  weakness,  uplifted  and  inspired  with 
a  manly  resolution. 

"  I  will  go  alone.  Jack.  Trust  it  to  me,"  he 
said. 

"  I  do,  Alfred.  But  it  is  late,  remember.  If 
she  is  asleep  you  will  not  wake  her  ?" 

"  No,  no !  The  news  will  keep — poor  infant ! — 
only  too  surely.  If  she  is  asleep,  I  will  let  her 
rest  till  to-morrow." 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  out.  Cousin 
John  watched  him  wistfully  and  left  him  to 


Lucile.  161 

seek  her  alone.  "When  Lord  Alfred  knocked  at 
her  door,  his  heart  beat  so  loud  he  could  not 
have  heard  a  reply  from  within.  He  repeated 
the  knock.  Then  tried  the  handle.  The  door 
opened,  and  he  entered  undiscovered. 

The  pale  lamp  shed  an  indistinct  light  about 
the  chamber,  through  which,  by  slow  degrees, 
he  could  see  Matilda  kneeling  at  her  bedside. 
She  was  so  deeply  wrapt  in  prayer  that  she  did 
not  know  of  her  husband's  presence.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  faint,  unearthly  effulgence  min- 
gled with  the  moonlight  and  lamplight,  as  if  to 
denote  the  presence  there  of  something  angelic 
and  pure. 

She  had  put  off  her  dress,  and  looked,  in  his 
eyes,  like  a  young  soul  escaped  from  its  earthly 
garb.  Her  neck  and  shoulders  were  bare,  and 
her  soft  golden  locks  rippled  down  over  ihem. 
Her  simple  white  bodice  was  undone,  and  all 
the  curves  of  her  slender  waist  were  unconfined. 
Her  beauty  went  trembling  through  him  as  the 
light  through  rippling  water.  His  heart  was 
bowed  down.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did, 
he  silently  knelt  and  prayed  beside  her. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  knew  that  he 
was  near  her.  A  blush  rose  swiftly  upon  her 
pale  cheek  where  the  tears  yet  sparkled.  She 
shrank  back  instinctively;  but  he  caught  her, 
and,  putting  his  arm  round  her  waist,  pressed 
III.— ^  14* 


1<!2  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

one  long  kiss  on  her  brow.  Then  her  fear  was 
gone.  Her  head  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  she 
hung  upon  him  locked  in  a  clinging  embrace,  as 
though  she  feared,  if  her  clasp  were  relaxed, 
he  might  part  from  her  again.  Her  smooth 
shoulders,  convulsed  by  sob  after  sob,  and  her 
pulsing  bosom  pressed  against  his,  told  of  the 
tumult  within  her  heart. 

-'  Oh,  Alfred,  Alfred !  forgive  me !"  she  sobbed. 

"Forgive  you,  my  poor  child!  But  I  never 
blamed  you,  and  I  have  not  a  single  reproach 
for  you  now."  He  gently  unwound  himself 
from  her  arms  and  forced  her  down  beside  him. 
They  sat  under  the  canopy  of  their  couch. 

"  Matilda,"  he  said,  softly,  "  when  a  proud 
man  has  at  length  found  out  that  he  is  but  a  fool 
in  his  wisdom,  to  whom  should  he  first  own  his 
weakness  ?     Should  it  not  be  to  his  wife  ?" 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Matilda. 

"Then  this  chamber,  dear,  is  a  confessional, 
and  you  are  my  confessor." 

"  I  ?"  she  faltered,  timidly  raising  her  head. 

"  Yes !  But  first  answer  one  question  :  When 
a  woman  feels  that  she  is  not  alone,  that  another 
halves  his  life  with  her  for  weal  or  woe,  will  she 
bear  any  better  what  life  may  take  away  from 
her?  AYhen  calamities  befall  her,  will  she  feel 
that,  though  they  darken  the  home,  they  brighten 
the  heart  ?" 


Lucile.  163 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  like  a  soft  rainy 
sky,  and  smiled  through  her  fresh  tears,  trust- 
fully and  tenderly. 

"  That  woman,"  she  murmured,  "  were  thrice 
blessed." 

"  Courage  then,  true  heart !"  he  said,  and 
gathered  her  closely  to  him.  "  The  refuge  of 
these  wide-open  arms  can  never  be  closed  to  you 
again.  This  room  is  an  asylum  for  us  both, 
for  when  I  crossed  the  threshold  I  left  there 
a  sudden  and  heavy  calamity.  Henceforth  I 
fear  we  must  face  it  daily,  but  here  it  cannot 
enter." 

She  started  :  "  Calamity,  Alfred,  to  you  ?" 

"  To  both,  my  poor  child  ;  but  I  trust  it  brings 
with  it  the  courage  to  endure  it."  Then  he 
gravely  told  her  how,  through  all  their  troubles, 
an  angel  had  been  near  ready  to  rescue  and 
warn  them.  How  the  smile  which  Matilda  had 
seen  with  suspicion  and  the  presence  she  had 
daily  resented  were  those  of  one  whom  they 
would  some  day  learn  to  remember  in  their 
prayers.  But  she  was  gone  now  from  their 
sight  forever. 

"  Here,  alone,"  he  cried,  "  I  seek  your  forgive- 
ness, dear,  and  open  my  heart  to  you.  Your 
fortune  is  lost.  But  I  have  found  a  greater 
prize,  the  heart  of  my  wife !" 

She  sprang  from  her  seat  with  a  beaming  face 


164  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  flung  her  arms  about  him,  while  her  head 
fell  upon  his  shoulder.  She  sobbed  there  a 
moment,  but  not  with  sorrow,  nor  even  the 
sense  of  loss.  She  was  oblivious  of  all  save 
her  own  love.  But  his  words  rushed  back  upon 
her  as  she  la}'  there :  "  The  fortune  lost!" 

"Lost?"  she  said,  at  last.  "Tell  me!  See, 
Alfred,  I  need  a  fuller  sense  of  afiliction  to  sober 
this  rapture." 

"Poor  innocent  child!"  He  kissed  her  fair 
brow  and  smiled  mournfully  as  he  told  her  all 
he  had  heard  ;  assuring  her  of  a  loyalty  which 
should  inspire  him  to  valiant  work  in  her  ser- 
vice. 

"  And  I,  too,"  she  murmured,  "  am  no  longer 
an  infant.  I  have  suifered  since  those  old  days. 
With  the  faith  I  pledged  as  a  wife  now  goes 
the  heart  1  have  learned  to  feel  as  a  woman. 
For  I  love  you,  my  husband." 

She  hid  her  head  on  his  breast,  as  if  to  empha- 
size the  words;  and  he  embraced  her  with  a 
new  fervor  and  poured  a  torrent  of  endearing 
words  into  her  ear. 

XI. 

When  Lucile  left  Matilda  she  sat  a  long  time 
in  her  chamber  among  the  signs  which  betokened 
her  departure  back  to  her  old  vacant  life.  Her 
heart  faltered  within  her.     She  was  unable  to 


Lxicile.  165 

sleep  or  to  free  herself  from  comfortless  reveries, 
so  she  rose  and  went  down  again  into  the  garden. 
The  air  of  dawn,  which  was  just  at  hand,  touched 
her  feverish  brow  with  a  strange  sensation. 
The  land  lay  in  darkness  all  about  her.  There 
was  no  sound  saving  of  the  river  and  of  the 
crickets  that  sing  all  night. 

She  stood  still.  Emotions  long  pent  up  in  her 
breast  began  to  stir  anew.  Then  there  came 
a  dull  sound,  and  a  ghostly  hand  touched  her. 
She  felt  herself  fixed  by  a  pair  of  hot  and  hol- 
low eyes.  It  was  the  Frenchman.  As  he  stood 
before  her  his  eyes  seemed  to  scorch  out  the 
darkness  between  them.  He  looked  like  a  shade 
sent  forth  to  oppress  the  soul  of  some  monk  in 
a  wilderness. 

"  At  last,  then — and  alone !"  he  muttered.  "  At 
last  you  and  I,  Lucile  de  Nevers,  have  met !" 
She  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  prevented  her, 
"  Hush  !  I  know  the  tryst  was  not  meant  for 
me!  But  never  mind,  it  is  mine,  and  whatever 
motive  has  brought  you  here,  you  shall  stay 
until  we  have  spoken.  My  hour  has  come,  and 
you  are  at  my  mercy.    You  shall  listen  to  me !" 

She  appeared  to  awaken  with  a  start. 

"  Continue,"  she  said :  "  I  am  listening." 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  saw  that 
his  face  was  disturbed  by  some  new  thought. 
He  continued  to  pace  to  and  fro  with  closely- 


166  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

folded  arms.  He  had  the  restless  stride  of  a 
panther  as  he  paced  in  narrowing  circles  around 
her.  At  last  he  stood  still  and  searched  her 
face  with  one  long  look. 

"  Lucile,  can  you  dare  to  look  into  my  face  ? 
Is  the  sight  so  repugnant?  Well,  then,  can  you 
identify  one  word  of  your  writing  there  ?  Your 
own  name  is  scrawled  in  it,  and  it  defaces  the 
soul  beneath." 

There  was  something  so  wild  and  terrible  in 
his  eyes  that  she  was  alarmed.  He  saw  it  and 
smiled,  then  turned  away  and  resumed  the  short, 
restless  stride,  as  if  searching  vainly  for  the 
point  of  some  purpose  within  him. 

"  Lucile,  you  shudder  when  you  look  into  my 
face :  do  you  feel  no  reproach  when  you  look 
into  your  own  heart  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  calmly;  "I  do  not  deserve 
your  rebuke." 

"No,"  he  muttered;  "gentle  Justice  first  bids 
life  not  to  hoj^e,  then  says  to  despair,  Do  not 
act.  We  are  wrecked  creatures,  you  and  I, 
only  able  to  injure  each  other,  and  fall,  sooner 
or  later,  into  the  void  we  have  ourselves  pre- 
pared. Woman,  woman,  what  have  you  done 
with  my  youth?  Give  me  back  again  the 
young  heart  I  gave  you." 

"  In  vain,"  she  murmured,  with  downcast 
eyes. 


Lucile.  167 

"  Yes,  yes !"  he  went  on  wildly,  "  I  was  not 
always  thus.  I  have  not  forgot,  madame,  what 
I  once  was!" 

"And  you  charge  me  with  wrecking  your 
life!  Alas,  Due  de  Luvois,  had  I  yielded  to 
your  entreaties  and  defrauded  my  own  heart  by 
marrying  you,  should  I  not  more  deeply  have 
wronged  you?" 

"  Wronged !"  he  cried.  "  Is  it  so,  then,  that 
you  could  never  have  loved  me  ?" 

"  Duke !"  she  interposed  to  soften  the  question. 

"  Never  ?"  he  persisted,  breaking  into  a  fierce 
laugh.  "  But  you  knew  that  I  loved  you.  You 
led  me  on  to  lay  all  the  cruel  power  in  that 
cold  face  of  yours  to  my  heart.  Was  that 
well?  And  yet  I  would  not  vent  my  hatred 
upon  you.  It  was  he !  that  man  who  tramples 
on  me  in  his  triumph.  He  has  cast  his  shadow 
between  me  and  the  sun.  My  hate  will  yet  find 
him  out !" 

She  murmured  some  words  of  regret,  then 
said  a  final  farewell  and  turned  coldly  away. 

"  Stay,  Lucile !"  he  cried.  "  I  am  mad,  brutal- 
ized, blind  with  pain !  I  did  not  mean  what  I 
uttered.  Forgive  me  !  I — have  wronged  you, — 
I — I — forgive,  forgive  me  !" 

"  I  feel  nothing  but  sadness,  sadness  to  my 
soul,  far  too  deep  for  resentment,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice. 


168  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  But  stand  as  you  are  one  moment,"  he 
pleaded.  "I  think  if  I  could  look  awhile  on 
your  face  the  old  innocent  days  would  come 
back  to  me,  and  this  scorching  heart  might  free 
itself  in  hot  tears.  I  lied,  Lucile ;  stay  a  mo- 
ment. And  yet  if  you  had  helped  me  to  bear 
what  you  made  me  suffer " 

"  Could  I  have  helped  you  ?"  she  murmured. 
"  But  what  can  I  say  that  your  life  will  respond 
to?" 

"My  life?  No,"  he  sighed.  "My  life  has 
brought  forth  nothing  but  evil.  The  love  I 
gave  you  was  all  I  had.  It  perished,  and  all 
else  perished  with  it.  By  the  law  of  fate  I 
am  what  I  am." 

She  was  silent  for  awhile,  then  answered 
gravely,— 

"  I  am  onlj''  a  woman  and  cannot  judge  fully 
of  this  matter.  But  there  is  a  purpose  in  pain, 
for  otherwise  it  were  devilish.  A  large  hope 
should  be  yours,  Eugene.  What  better  proves 
that  there's  life  still  in  a  heart  than  that  it 
bleeds  ?  Pain  will  burn  itself  out  if  sin  ceases 
to  supply  it  with  fuel.  There  is  hope  and  love 
in  yonder  dawn.  Let  hate  and  despondency  die 
with  the  night!" 

The  sound  of  her  measured  and  sympathetic 
words  seemed  to  restore  the  forces  of  his 
thought.    A  fancy  passed  through  his  mind  that 


Lucile.  169 

the  woman  he  once  loved  was  dead,  and  that 
this  was  her  spirit  which  stood  by  him  in  thq 
light  of  dawn.  He  besought  the  soul  of  Lucile 
to  pray  for  his  soul. 

"  We  are  parting,"  he  said.  "  All  is  over 
between  us.  It  was  the  long-hoarded  pain  that 
rushed  from  me.  I  was  unjust,  Lucile  ;  forgive 
me !  I  was  maddened,  delirious  !  I  saw  you 
return  to  him — not  to  me ;  and  my  heart  burnt 
with  vengeance.  Are  we,  then,  never  to  meet 
again  ?  Ah,  who  knows  or  heeds  where  the 
exile  from  Paris  flies  ?" 

Once  more  her  voice  fell  soothingly  on  his 
senses : 

"  Our  paths  part  henceforth,  Eugene.  I  can- 
not say  that  we  shall  never  meet  again,  for  I  do 
not  know.  But  we  can  never  meet  again  as  we 
met  of  old.  This  alone  I  will  promise  :  that  if 
in  the  conflict  before  you  you  ever  falter  and 
need  my  presence  to  rescue  or  support  you,  in 
that  hour  of  need,  depend  upon  it,  I  shall  be  at 
your  side.  Then  we  shall  meet  again  soul  to 
soul." 

Her  voice  ceased,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  see 
her  face ;  but  she  was  gone. 

XII. 

A  YOUNG  English  officer  who  had  fallen  sword 
in  hand  on  the  field  of  Inkerman  had  been 
H  •  10 


170  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

carried  to  the  rear,  still  breathing,  but  wounded 
almost  to  death.  Through  long  days  and  nights 
he  lay  in  his  tent,  dark  and  hopeless,  for  in  his 
young  heart  there  was  a  wound  rankling  as 
pitilessly  as  the  desperate  hurt  in  his  side.  One 
night  as  he  lay  there  half  delirious  he  heard  the 
wind  wailing  without  and  swaying  the  rain- 
drenched  tent  curtain  to  and  fro;  then  the 
curtain  was  lifted  suddenly,  but  not  by  the  wind, 
and  a  pale  woman  entered.  The  sufferer  could 
see  her  form  floating  towards  him  in  the  dim 
lamplight.  She  paused  at  last  by  his  bedside 
and  laid  her  white  hand  on  his  brow.  A  light 
finger  softly  pressed  the  sore  wounds.  The  hot 
dressing  was  slipped  away  from  them.  A  com- 
forting tranquillity  stole  through  him.  He 
could  see  two  intense,  tender  eyes  bending  over 
him  from  beneath  a  hood  of  rough  gray  serge. 
Surely,  he  thought,  this  is  Death's  angel.  But 
a  soft  voice  said,  "  Sleep !" 

He  fell  asleep  at  the  command  and  wakened 
only  at  dawn.  The  vision  was  still  there.  It 
had  not  moved  from  his  side;  but  the  aspect 
of  all  things  about  him  had  been  silently  beauti- 
fied. 

"Say  what  you  are,  blessed  dream  of  a  minis- 
tering spirit,"  he  sighed. 

A  whisper  came  from  the  silence : 

*'  I  am  the  Soeur  Seraphine,  young  soldier,  a 


Lucile.  171 

poor  Sister  of  Charitj'-.  Inquire  no  further,  but 
sleep  again." 

Once  more  he  obeyed  her  and  slept  till  dawn. 
She  was  by  his  side  when  he  awoke,  and  he 
asked  her  anew  where  she  had  come  from  and 
who  she  was. 

Bending  down  to  smooth  the  hot  pillow,  she 
whispered, — 

"  Your  life  is  precious  to  me,  for  I  know  your 
mother  and  your  father." 

"Can  it  be  so?  My  dearest  father  and 
mother, — you  know  thera?" 

She  bowed  silently,  half  averting  her  face. 

Brokenly  and  timidly  he  asked, — 

"  Do  they  know  I  am — here  ?" 

"  Hush !" 

She  smiled  and  drew  two  letters,  which  bore 
familiar  writing,  from  her  bosom. 

He  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  poor  mother — my  father !  They  know 
the  worst,  then !" 

"  No !"  she  said,  smiling ;  "  they  know  you  are 
living  and  that  I  am  watching  beside  you." 

Then  again  she  soothed  him  to  sleep,  and  he 
lost  his  woes  in  the  peace  of  dreams. 

Day  followed  day  in  this  wise  until  the  lusty 
young  frame  began  to  knit  again  and  the  boy 
was  nearly  well.  But  there  was  still  a  feeble- 
ness lurking  in  his  system  which  looked  oul  of 


172  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

his  hollow  eyes  and  was  apparent  in  his  pinched 
cheeks  and  the  languor  of  his  thin  pale  fingers. 

"I  have  healed  the  wounds  of  the  body,"  she 
said  one  day.  "  But  what  do  you  hide  in  that 
still-open  wound  of  the  heart?  Will  you  trust 
no  hand  near  it  ?" 

He  winced  like  one  who  is  suddenly  touched 
on  a  nerve. 

"  What  ?"  he  moaned.  "  Is  my  heart  so  bare, 
then  ?" 

"  No,  young  soldier,"  she  said,  reassuringly, 
"  but  these  eyes  are  too  familiar  with  sorrow 
not  to  know  her  features.  Trust  me !"  drawing 
his  two  feeble  hands  gently  into  her  own. 
"  Trust  me !  I  am  not  so  dead  to  the  world  but 
that  I  can  recall  enough  of  its  sorrows  to  grieve 
for  us  both.  Perhaps  if  I  know  the  cause  of 
your  unhappiness  I  could  heal  it.  Tell  me,  then ; 
trust  in  me !" 

He  was  weeping  when  she  paused.  There 
was  small  need  to  add  entreaty  to  those  gentle 
accents.  Without  resistance  they  drew  the  brief 
tale  of  an  early  sorrow  to  his  trembling  lips. 

"  A  few  years  ago,"  he  said,  "a  young  girl,  the 
niece  of  a  French  noble,  was  brought  from  an 
ancient  Norman  pile  by  the  northern  seas  to 
live  with  an  old  dame  of  her  race  in  the  P'au- 
bourg  Saint  Germain.  From  babyhood  the  girl 
had  been  without  father  and   mother,  but  an 


Lucile.  173 

uncle  had  supplied  their  place  in  her  heart. 
She  had  grown  up  at  his  side  and  under  his 
roof-tree  from  childhood  to  girlhood.  She 
seemed  to  be  the  sole  human  creature  for  whom 
he  had  a  regard.  No  smile  but  hers  could  win 
a  response  from  his  dark  and  threatening  face. 
But  after  a  few  tranquil  years  in  the  old  chateau 
a  letter  arrived  which  suddenly  called  him  away, 
and  when  he  returned  he  brought  with  him  a 
tall  and  ancient  kinswoman,  to  whom  he  con- 
fided the  orphan.  He  then  left  them  alone  in 
the  far-away  house,  and  the  girl  saw  no  more 
of  him  for  years.  But  it  was  at  his  command 
that  she  had  been  taken  to  Paris,  as  he  desired 
her,  he  said,  to  see  the  world.  And  it  was  in 
Paris  that  I  met  her.  The  old  miracle  of  love 
at  first  sight  needs  no  explanation.  I  was  gra- 
ciously bidden  to  be  an  habitual  guest  at  the 
house,  and  the  old  lady  seemed  pleased  to  ob- 
serve that  my  love  was  returned  by  Constance. 
She  wrote  to  her  cousin  of  my  father,  and  of 
my  deference  to  her ;  of  my  love  for  Constance 
and  of  hers  for  me.  At  length  came  a  brief 
and  stern  answer  which  much  astonished  the 
aged  lady :  "  Let  Constance  leave  Paris  with,  you 
on  the  day  you  receive  this.  She  may  remain 
at  her  convent  until  I  return.  If  she  wishes 
to  see  me  again  she  will  never  marry  that 
man.    You  have  broken  faith  with  me.     Fare- 

15* 


174  Tales  from   Ten  Poets. 

well!"  There  was  no  appeal  from  such  a  decree. 
The  dream  was  over.  Constance  went  away 
with  herold  guardian,  and  though  she  nevermur- 
mured  she  grew  paler  day  by  day  and  was  visibly 
drooping.    It  was  then  that  I  too  sought  death." 

Thus  his  tale  ended.  As  he  had  told  it,  in 
faltering  words,  the  night-wind  had  blown  in 
gusts  about  the  tent  door.  When  he  was  done 
he  sank  back  exhausted  and  fell  into  a  feverish 
slumber.  She  sat  for  a  long  while  in  deep 
thought.  The  sweet  smile  which  was  wont  to 
linger  in  her  face  had  fled  away  and  a  great  sad- 
ness was  there  instead.  The  tears  began  to  fall 
from  her  eyes,  but  she  was  not  wholly  joyless. 

"Here,  at  least,  I  have  not  failed,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  she  drew  two  letters  from  her  bosom. 

In  one,  a  mother's  heart,  wild  with  alarm  for 
her  son,  breathed  forth  a  despairing  plaint : 

"  The  pledge  of  love  owed  to  you,  Lucile ;  the 
hope  of  a  home  saved  by  you,  of  a  heart  which 
has  never  ceased  to  bless  and  to  pra}'  for  you 
since  that  happy  time, — in  the  name  of  all 
these,  save  my  son  !" 

Then,  from  Lord  Alfred,  followed  a  few  blotted 
and  heart-broken  pages,  in  which  he  spoke  of 
his  love  for  the  boy  and  his  grief  that  the 
match  could  never  come  to  pass.  He  also 
appealed  to  her  to  save  his  son,  and  blessed  her 
for  her  loving  care  of  him. 


Lucile.  175 

"  Ah,"  murmured  the  Sceur  Seraphine  again, 
"there  at  least  I  have  not  failed.  My  part 
is  done;  my  mission  accomplished."  She  knelt 
down  and  prayed.  When  dawn  broke  into  the 
tent  she  rose  from  the  bedside  and  passed  out. 

Meanwhile,  in  his  well-ordered  tent,  sur- 
rounded by  his  aides  and  going  over  his  daily 
reports,  sat  a  French  general,  bronzed  by  the 
sun  and  seared  by  the  sands  of  Algeria.  He 
had  strangely  and  rapidly  risen  from  the  wars 
of  the  wild  Kabylee  to  be  the  idol  of  the  younger 
French  chivalry.  He  had  entered  the  army 
late  in  life,  after  discarding  his  Bourbonite  alle- 
giance, and  had  risen  partly  from  a  singular 
aptitude  for  the  desert  warfare  of  ambush  and 
stratagem  and  partly  from  chance, — partly,  too, 
from  a  name  and  position  which  his  countrymen 
were  proud  to  put  forward. 

He  was,  at  the  moment,  bending  over  some 
plan  for  hospital  service,  and  the  officer  standing 
behind  him  referred  to  the  loving  offices  of  the 
Sisters  of  Charity ;  one  of  whom  in  particular, 
he  declared,  was  known  through  the  camp  as 
an  angel  of  grace. 

"  Truly,  I  have  heard  much  of  her,"  said  the 
general,  "  and  we  already  owe  her  the  lives  of 
many  of  our  bravest.  You  allude  to — how  do 
they  call  her? — the  Sceur  Seraphine  ;  is  it  not 
so?     On  my  word  I  have  very  much  wished  to 


176  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

see  her.  Find  her,  and,  if  possible,  let  her  come 
to  me.     We  shall,  I  think,  aid  each  other." 

"  Oi«',  mon  General :  I  hear  she  has  lately 
been  attending  a  sick  man  in  the  Second  Division 
of  our  allies;  they  say  he  is  a  relation  of 
hers." 

"A  relation?"  asked  the  general,  absently. 

"  So  it  is  said." 

*'  Do  you  know  the  name  ?" 

'■^  Non,  vion  General^ 

As  they  spoke  a  murmur  arose  around  the 
tent  door,  and  a  voice  said, — 

"A  Sister  of  Charity  craves  the  grace  of  a 
brief  private  interview  with  the  general.  Will 
he  speak  with  her  ?" 

"  Bid  her  declare  her  mission,"  he  said. 

"  She  will  not  do  so.  She  desires  to  be  seen 
and  heard  personally." 

"  Her  name,  then." 

"The  Soeur  Seraphine." 

"  Clear  the  tent.     She  may  enter." 

The  general  heard  a  light  footfall  behind  him. 

"  Sit  down.  Holy  Sister,"  he  said ;  "  your  worth 
is  well  known  to  the  hearts  of  all  our  men.  I 
owe  you  some  thanks  for  your  services.  Now, 
then,  your  mission  ?" 

The  nun  was  silent.  He  eyed  her  more 
keenly.  His  aspect  grew  troubled.  A  change 
darkened  over  his  features. 


Lucile.  177 

"  Strange,"  he  muttered,  "  that  the  face  should 
remind  me  of  her!  Psha!  it  is  only  a  dream!" 
Then  he  repeated  aloud :  "  Sit  down.  Sister,  and 
state  the  cause  of  your  visit." 

"  The  cause  ?"  she  vaguely  said.  She  made  a 
movement  less  towards  him  than  away  from 
herself.  Her  head  drooped  and  she  folded  her 
hands  on  her  bosom.  They  were  long,  fatigued, 
and  mournful  hands.  Not  a  stray  hair  escaped 
from  the  white  bands,  which  were  scarcely  paler 
than  the  face  bound  within  them.  She  fixed 
her  eyes  on  him,  and  he  felt  a  strange  awe  creep 
over  his  senses. 

"Eugene  de  Luvois,"  she  said  in  measured 
words,  "the  cause  of  my  visit  is  a  promise 
which  remains  unfulfilled.  I  come  to  fulfil 
it." 

He  sprang  from  his  seat,  pressing  his  hand 
over  his  face  as  if  in  doubt,  and  stepped  toward 
her.  He  laid  one  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  searched  her  face  with  a  long,  troubled  look. 
Then  he  staggered  backward. 

"  Lucile !"  he  cried.  "  And  we  meet  again  thus, 
and  here?" 

"  Soul  to  soul,  Eugene,  as  I  pledged  you  we 
should  one  day  do.  I  would  speak  now  to  your 
soul.     May  I  do  so  ?" 

He  said  only,  "  Speak  to  me !" 

"  I  come  from  the  bedside  of  a  man  who  is 
III.— »» 


178  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

dying,"  she  said.  -'Even  while  we  are  talking 
here  his  life  ebbs  away." 

"  Quick,  then  !"  he  cried  ;  "  do  you  want  medi- 
cine or  aid,  or  what  ?" 

"  Medicine  for  the  mind, — yes.  It  is  the  heart 
which  needs  aid  in  this  case.  You,  and  you 
only,  can  save  his  life.    Now,  will  you  save  it?" 

"  But  what  man  ?     How  ?     Where  ?" 

She  told  him  all  in  a  few  brief  and  vivid  words, 
then  threw  the  whole  pity  of  her  heart  into  a 
plea  for  the  young  soldier  s  love. 

As  she  proceeded  his  face  grew  more  and 
more  inflamed,  aad  at  last  the  storm  which  had 
been  gathering  within  broke  into  grief  and 
rage. 

"Hold!"  he  cried.  "It  is  for  his  sake,  then, 
you  are  here, —  for  him  you  have  deigned  to  think 
again  of  my  long-forgoLten  existence!" 

"Eugene,"  she  said,  soothingly. 

"Fool  that  I  was!"  he  went  on.  "  But,  be  it 
so.  There's  a  sort  of  slow  justice  in  it.  At 
last  I  can  return  him  his  own  word, — Never !" 

"  When  we  parted,"  she  said,  "  I  urged  you 
to  put  forth  the  power  which  I  knew  was 
yours.  I  foresaw  you  would  conquer,  and  you 
have  conquered  much  that  is  noble.  But  I 
saw,  as  well,  that  there  was  one  foe  whom  you 
might  fail  to  subdue,  and  that  was  yourself 
You  remember  that  I  promised,  if  I  saw  my 


Lucile.  179 

champion  falter,  I  would  be  promptly  at  his  side. 
The  moment  has  come  now,  for  you  falter.  I 
plead  for  yourself  and  one  other :  for  your  own 
nobler  nature  and  for  Constance !" 

"  Constance  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Ay,  she  entered 
my  lonely  life  when  its  sun  had  long  been  set. 
I  have  only  that  one  sole  light  in  the  midst  of 
much  darkness." 

"  But  can  you  feel  assured  of  the  life  you 
cherish  so?" 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked,  startled. 

"  If  the  boy  should  die  ?"  she  said. 

He  was  pacing  the  tent  with  long  strides  and 
muttering  low  to  himself, — 

"  These  young  things  lie  safe  in  our  hearts 
while  their  wings  are  growing,  and  when  they 
are  strong,  they  break  the  nest  and,  it  is  fare- 
well, and  they  fly  away." 

The  nun  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Eemembcr,"  she  said,  "  life  fleets  away  while 
we  talk  thus.  Oh,  Eugene,  let  this  day  behold 
your  final  victory !" 

"If  Constance  weds  the  son  of  this  man,"  he 
said,  solemnly,  "she  is  lost  forever  to  my 
life !" 

"  But  do  not  think  of  the  son  of  the  man  whom 
you  unjustly  hate ;  think  only  of  this  young 
human  creature  who  appeals  to  you  from  the 
edge  of  the  grave !"  . 


180  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

She  pleaded  with  him  with  all  the  intensity  of 
her  nature,  and  he  seemed  moved  at  last ;  but 
still  he  put  the  cup  from  him,  and  bowed  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Then,  overtaken  by  a  new 
impulse,  he  sprang  up  from  his  seat  and  brushed 
past  her,  bitterly  crying, — 

"No!  Constance  to  marry  a  Vargrave!  I 
cannot  consent!" 

The  Sceur  Seraphine  rose  to  her  full  height. 
The  low  tent  seemed  dwarfed  by  her  stature, 
and  a  silent  sadness  poured  from  her  imperial 
eyes  upon  him.  He  felt  himself  shrink  under 
the  compulsion  of  her  regard. 

" Eugene  de  Luvois,"  she  said,  "but  for  you  I 
might  have  been  now,  not  this  wandering  nun, 
but  a  wife  pleading,  not  for  another's  child,  but 
blessing  one  of  my  own, — my  own  and  his — 
whom  I  once  loved !" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  reproach,  but  she  put, 
forth  a  commanding  hand,  and  continued : 

"  Hush !  that  which  is  done  I  do  not  regret. 
I  breathe  no  reproaches.  What  God  sends  is 
best.  This  only  I  say  :  You  have  not  the  right 
to  think  yourself  the  wronged  !" 

"  Have  I,  then,  wronged  you,  Lucile!"  he  cried, 
painfully. 

"  No,  not  me,"  she  answered,  "  but  man.  The 
lone  nun  has  no  claim  on  earth.  She  has  passed 
from  earth's  wrongs  and  reparations.     But  the 


Lucile.  181 

dead  woman,  Lucile,   whose   grave   is   in   me, 
demands  reparation  to  man  and  God." 

"  Hush  !"  he  moaned.  "  I  obey  the  Soeur  Sera- 
phine.  Then,  Lucile,  let  this  pay  the  debt  due 
to  the  grave.  Now  lead  on ;  I  follow  you  to  the 
son  of  Lord  Alfred  Vargrave — and  then" — as 
he  spoke  he  lifted  the  tent  door  and  pointed 
across  to  the  dark  bastions  and  the  city  beneath 
— "  then,  there,  and  valete  et  plaudite,  as  soon  as 
may  be !" 

The  damp  and  sickly  day  was  declining,  and 
the  English  camp  shone  in  a  ghostly  glare. 
Alone  in  his  dim  tent,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
departing  light,  the  sick  boy  was  sitting  on  his 
low  bed,  full  of  weary  thoughts.  Suddenly  a 
shadow  fell  between  his  eyes  and  the  sun.  It 
was  the  pale  Sister  once  more.  But  there  was 
some  one  else  by  her  side.  How  often  through 
the  glory  of  battle  had  he  watched  with  long- 
ing looks  that  dim  plume  which  now  shook 
there  in  his  tent  door !  How  that  stern  face 
had  haunted  his  dreams !  Through  what  fear 
and  doubt  he  had  yearned  to  be  a  hero  like  this 
famous  warrior !  And  now — could  he  speak  out 
his  heart  face  to  face  with  him  before  he  died! 
He  sprang  up,  and  the  blood  sprang  up  to  his 
throat  and  overthrew  him.  He  reeled  back ;  a 
dim  haze  filled  his  eyes,  and  a  din  like  roaring 
waters  was  in  his  ears,  through  which  he  could 

16 


1S2  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

faintly  hear  the  nun  say,  as  she  pointed  to  him, 
"  Behold !"  Then  the  plume  seemed  to  wave 
like  a  flame  and  fade  into  the  darkness  which 
put  out  the  world. 

The  general  bent  at  his  side. 

"Ah,  the  smooth  brow,  the  fair  Vargrave 
face,  and  those  eyes,  all  his  mother's.  The  old 
things  once  again.  Do  not  get  up,"  he  said, 
as  the  boy  attempted  to  do  so ;  "  you  are  suffer- 
ing." 

"  Sir,  I  am  dying,"  was  the  reply. 

"Not  so  young!"  said  the  Duke. 

"  So  young  ?  Yes,  and  yet  I  have  tangled 
other  lives  in  the  warp  and  woof  of  mine.  Yes, 
Duke,  very  young,  and  I  did  not  know  you, 
though  I  have  done  you  a  wrong  which  it  is  too 
late  to  repair.  I  loved  your  niece, — loved  ? — 
why,  I  love  her.  I  seemed  born  to  love  her. 
There  was  no  voice  raised  in  warning  of  the 
coming  curse,  and  the  blow  fell  upon  us  both. 
This  is  why  I  implore  your  pardon  for  the  great 
injury  done  to  her,  and  through  her  to  you, 
Heaven  knows  how  unwittingly !" 

"  Ah,  young  soldier,  but  suppose  I  came  to 
seek,  not  to  grant,  pardon  ?" 

"  Of  whom  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"  Of  yourself" 

"  Duke,  I  bear  to  the  tomb  not  a  single  re- 
sentment.    There  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive. 


Lncile.  183 

Every  act  of  your  great  life  starts  forward  to 
confirm  ^x\y  heart  in  its  faith  in  yours.  1 
believe  in  Constance  as  she  does  in  you.  There 
is  grief  wherever  we  turn  in  this  world,  and 
yet  there  sits  God,  calmly  in  heaven  above ! 
Do  we  trust  one  whit  less  in  his  justice  ?" 

"Enough!"  said  the  Duke.  "At  last  hear 
the  truth.  Your  father  and  I  were  foes,  but 
why  it  matters  not.  My  heart  buried  slain 
love  in  hatred.  But  the  present  shall  acquit  the 
past.  In  the  name  of  my  niece,  whom  I  give 
you  as  a  hostage,  are  you  great  enough  to  for- 
give me  and  live  ?" 

A  tumultuous  joy  arose  in  the  young  soldier's 
face.  He  had  risen  to  answer  the  Duke,  but 
strength  failed  him.  A  strange,  happ\-  feeble- 
ness trembled  through  him.  With  a  cry  of 
rapture  he  sank  on  the  nun's  breast. 

"  Yes,  boy,  thank  this  guardian  angel,"  the 
Duke  said.  "  I,  and  you  also,  owe  her  all.  Live 
for  her  sake,  and  be  true  to  your  young  life's 
promise !" 

"  I  will  live,  Duke,"  he  said.  "  I  must  live 
to  make  my  life  answer  your  claim.  Joy  never 
kills!"  His  head  sank  back  upon  the  nun's 
breast.  She  saw  his  lip  quiver,  and  motioned 
the  Duke  to  withdraw.  He  eyed  them  with  a 
wistful  look,  then  turned  and  passed  out  of 
the  tent. 


184  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

As  he  stood  outside  watching  the  lurid  sun- 
set and  deeply  affected  by  what  he  had  done  and 
seen,  Lucile  left  the  tent  and  came  silently  to 
his  side. 

"  Sceur  Seraphine,"  he  said,  "  are  you  happy  ?" 

"  Eugene,"  she  answered,  "  what  can  be  hap- 
pier than  not  to  have  hoped  in  vain  ?   And  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  all  he  said. 

"  You  do  not  repent  ?" 

"No." 

"Thank  Heaven  !"  she  murmured. 

He  looked  musingly  at  the  sunset  and  sighed 
as  though  from  his  very  heart. 

"  Blessed  are  they,  among  whom  I  am  not," 
he  said,  "  whose  unclouded  morning  predicts  a 
pure  evening." 

"  But  the  final  question  will  be,"  she  answered, 
"  not,  How  did  the  soul  pass  through  its  trials  ? 
but,  What  is  its  state  at  the  last  ?" 

"May  it  be  so!"  he  sighed.  "There,  the  sun 
drops!"  and  while  he  spoke  all  the  purple  and 
gold  in  the  west  had  turned  ashen,  save  one 
fading  strip  of  light. 

"  Nunc  dimittis  !"  she  said.  "  Again  we  two 
part,  each  to  work  out  Heaven's  will :  you,  I 
trust,  in  the  world's  ample  witness,  and  I  in 
secret  and  silence.  We  will  meet  at  one  gate 
when  all  is  over."  She  turned  with  a  sad  smile 
and  passed  out  into  the  twilight. 


iG^ 


GEOKCE   ELJOT. 


/SSlt 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


16* 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 


I. 

Five  good  souls  were  grouped  in  the  whitened 
court  of  the  Moorish  tavern,  expecting  to  see 
the  Duke  and  his  soldiers  pass  by.  The  trel- 
lised  vines  were  purpling  above  their  heads 
as  they  sat  in  the  shade,  noting  through  the  open 
door  the  throngs  that  had  come  abroad  to  see 
the  procession.  There  was  Mine  Host,  with  a 
well-arched  nose,  soft  eyes,  and  fat  hands,  with 
which  he  caressed  Seneca  the  mastiff,  leaning  on 
his  knee.  There  was  Blasco,  prosperous  silver- 
smith from  Aragon;  Juan,  a  spare  man  who 
held  a  lute  and  chattered  like  a  magpie  ;  Eol- 
dan,  the  juggler,  all  spangles  and  rosettes  and 
little  else ;  and,  lastly,  there  was  Eoldan's  son, 
whom  his  dead  wife,  the  Spanish  dancer,  had 
left  him.  He  too  had  his  spangles  and  large 
rosettes,  to  hide  his  crippled  left  foot,  which  was 
rounded  like  a  hoof  But  beside  these,  and  by 
no  means  to  be  omitted,  there  was  Annibal,  the 
monkey,    who   performed    tricks   and   carried 

187 


188  Tales  from   Ten  Poets. 

round  the  hat :  a  misanthrope  very  grim  and 
gray  to  look  upon. 

A  braided  matting  was  stretched  above  their 
heads,  partly  rolled  back  to  let  in  the  sky  and 
partly  protective  of  the  grapes.  A  fountain 
played  in  the  court,  where  birds  occasionally 
alighted  and  drank ;  and  on  the  stone  floor  lay 
the  heaped-up  goods  of  Roldan,  the  juggler : 
carpet  and  hoops  and  a  violin  and  tambourine, 
among  which  was  perched  Annibal,  with  severe 
brows  and  a  look  of  hearty  disgust. 

"Hark,  there's  the  trumpet!"  cried  Juan, 
near  the  door-way.  "  Now  the  clattering  hoofs, 
and,  there  comes  the  banner !" 

Mine  Host  joined  Juan,  and  leaned  far  out  of 
the  door. 

"The  Duke  has  finished  reconnoitring, then," 
he  said.  "  We  shall  hear  news  now.  They  say 
he  means  a  sally  against  El  Zagal's  Moors  as 
they  push  home  with  their  booty.  Then,  when 
he  is  joined  by  the  other  nobles,  he  will  lay 
siege  to  Guadix.  Juan,  you're  a  bird  who  nest 
in  the  castle :  what  say  you  ?" 

"Nothing!"  replied  Juan,  with  eyes  on  the 
street.  "  But  here  comes  the  Duke.  What 
feeble  shouts  they  give  him !  Some  look  sour 
enough,  too !" 

"  Spain  does  not  hold  a  more  gallant  gentle- 
man," cried  Mine  Host.   "  Long  live  Duke  Silva! 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  189 

What  a  rare  smile  he  has, — it's  so  seldom  seen !" 
Then  turning  to  Blaseo  :  "  You  are  a  stranger, 
sir,  and  cannot  know  how  our  Duke's  nature 
suits  his  princely  frame." 

"  No,"  said  the  silversmith,  "  but  I  marked 
his  spurs, — very  cunningly  chased.  Your  Duke 
surely  sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo  ;  but  you  seem 
to  say  the  people  are  slack  in  love  towards  him." 

"They've  nothing  against  him,"  said  Mine 
Host,  reassuringly,  "  but  certain  winds  make 
men's  temper  bad.  There's  a  wind  just  now 
that  blows  right  from  Seville " 

"  Ay,  you  mean  the  wind — that's  rather 
hot " 

"  With  fagots,"  explained  Mine  Host. 

"  A  wind  that  does  not  suit  with  our  towns- 
men's blood,"  interposed  Juan. 

"  We  of  Saragossa  do  not  like  this  new  tax,  I 
warrant  you,"  said  Blaseo:  "but,"  with  a  cau- 
tious look  about  him,  "  perhaps  I  speak  too 
bluntly.  As  for  Holy  Church,  no  man  believes 
more." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  Mine  Host.  "  Good  Master 
Roldan  here  is  no  delator." 

"  You  speak  to  me,  sirs  ?"  said  Eoldan,  starting 
from  a  revery.  "  I  perform  to-night  in  the  Plaga 
Santiago.  Twenty  tricks,  all  different.  I  dance, 
too.  The  boy  sings  like  a  bird.  I  crave  your 
patronage." 


190  Tales  from.  Ten  Poets. 

"  Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir,"  put  in  Blasco. 
''  I  take  a  little  freedom  in  travelling.  You  did 
not  mark  what  I  said  just  now?" 

"  I  ?  No.  I  pray  your  pardon.  My  knee 
twinges  and  makes  it  hard  for  me  to  listen. 
You  were  saying ?" 

"Nay,  it  was  nothing,"  answered  Blasco. 
Then  aside  to  the  host  he  whispered,  "  Is  it  his 
deepness  ?" 

"  No,  he's  deep  in  nothing  but  poverty,"  was 
the  answer  in  Blasco's  ear. 

"  Good !  I  speak  out  my  mind  about  the 
penalties,  but  I'm  against  assassination  for  all 
that.  You  know  my  meaning, — Master  Arbues, 
the  grand  inquisitor  in  Aragon.  I  knew  noth- 
ing, paid  nothing  towards  the  deed.  But  I  was 
there  at  prayers  in  the  church.  How  could  I 
help  it?     I " 

"  Looked  another  way,"  put  in  Juan. 

"  Why,  at  my  beads,"  continued  Blasco.  "  It 
was  after  midnight.  I  saw  the  martyr  kneel. 
I  never  liked  his  looks  alive, — he  was  no  martyr 
then.  I  looked  away  and  told  my  beads,  and 
across  the  chantinsj  there  came  a  sound  as  if  a 
tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar  of  a  torrent. 
He  had  a  good  iron  suit  beneath  the  innocent 
serge, — that  made  the  sound.  Then  came  shrieks 
and  rushing  feet,  and  in  the  midst  Master 
Arbues  lay  felled  like  an  ox.     It  was  wicked 


The  Spamsh  Gypsy.  101 

butchery.  Some  honest  men  thought  it  would 
scare  the  Inquisition  from  Aragon.  But  it  was 
money  thrown  away, — I  should  say,  crime." 

"  That  was  a  pity  now,"  said  Mine  Host. 
"There's  a  high-born  Dominican  monk  hero 
within  the  city  walls  they  might  have  made  the 
mistake  to  kill." 

"  What !  is  he T   asked  Blasco. 

"  Yes ;  a  Master  Arbues  of  finer  quality.  lie's 
the  Prior  here  ;  uncle  to  our  Duke." 

"  He  will  want  plate,  then  ;  a  holy  pillar  or  a 
crucifix,"  said  Blasco,  keen  for  trade.  "  But  did 
you  say  he  was  like  Arbues  ?" 

"  As  a  black  eagle  is  like  a  raven,"  put  in 
Juan. 

Mine  Host  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  de- 
livered an  opinion  that  was  meant  to  be  final  : 

"  Our  Father  Isidor  is — a  living  saint,"  he 
said.  "  Some  think  a  living  saint  is  a  heresy,  for, 
according  to  the  Church,  saints  should  be  dead. 
It  would  be  a  sin  to  detain  his  soul  from  bliss, 
say  I,  and  I've  never  grudged  him  the  shortest 
journey  to  the  seventh  heaven." 

"  Piously  said,"  cried    Blasco.     "  Look   you 
I'm   dutiful,    always    obey  the  Church — when 
there's  no  help  for  it, — and  Pope,  Bishop,  and 
all  customers  order  alike." 

Blasco  was  a  little  startled  by  hearing,  after 
this  bit  of  treason,  a  resonant  step  on  the  stones 


192  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

and  seeing  the  bronzed  face  of  a  soldier  come 
through  the  door-way. 

"  At  your  service,  sirs,"  he  said,  with  an  angu- 
lar gesture,  as  he  came  into  their  midst. 

"  Ha,  Captain  Lopez !"  called  out  Juan.  "  You 
have  a  face  as  full  charged  with  tidings  as  a 
herald's.  What's  the  latest  news  from  the  wars  ?" 

"  Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  to  my  tongue," 
answered  the  soldier,  as  he  took  the  seat  offered  by 
the  landlord  and  lifted  a  fresh-filled  cup  to  his  lips. 

"  Then  spit  it  forth,"  retorted  Juan,  thrum- 
ming his  lute  carelessly. 

"  The  news  is  bad,"  said  he  of  the  sword  and 
spurs.  "  We  are  to  make  no  sally  ;  but  sit  here 
and  wait  whatever  the  Moor  pleases  to  do." 

"  Some  townsmen  will  be  glad  of  that,"  said 
Mine  Host. 

"  Glad,  will  they  be  ?  Well,  so  am  not  I,"  ex- 
claimed the  Captain.  "  No  Spanish  soldier's 
glad  of  clean  blood.  But  the  Duke  has  decided 
to  wait  a  siege  instead  of  laying  one.  Mean- 
time, he  will  marry." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  laughed  the  landlord,  shaking 
his  fat  sides.  "Your  speech  is  like  an  hour- 
glass. Turn  it  down  and  it  will  stand  just  as 
well.  Why  not  say  the  Duke  means  to  wed, 
therefore  he  will  wait  a  siege  ?  But  what  do 
Don  Diego  and  the  Prior  say  to  this?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  sayings  abroad  as  thick  as 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  193 

overturned  nuts.  Some  say  letters  from  Kome 
changed  the  Duke's  plans,  some  from  Malaga, 
some  say  it  is  a  pretext.  Bias  said  that.  Last 
week  he  said " 

"  I'd  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea  forever  in  the 
same  spot  as  hear  such  a  repetition  of  saids," 
interrupted  the  impatient  Juan. 

"  Santiago !  but  you  are  hard  to  please,  Juan," 
exclaimed  the  Captain.  "  But  I  do  not  speak 
for  my  own  delight.     I  can  be  silent." 

"  Nay,  speak  on,  sir,"  urged  Blasco.  "  I  like 
your  matter  well.  I  deal  in  plate,  and  the  wed- 
ding therefore  touches  me  closely.  Who  is  the 
bride?" 

"  Her  name  is  Fedalma,"  went  on  Lopez  with 
an  injured  air ;  "  the  Duchess  Diana,  the  Duke's 
mother,  who  died  last  year,  gave  it  to  her.  They 
say  the  Duke  stoops  in  marrying  her.  That's 
the  simple  truth.  Father  Marcos  says  she  will 
not  confess  and  avoids  holy  water;  says  her 
blood  is  infidel ;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
is  a  union  of  light  with  darkness." 

"Tush!"  from  Juan,  with  a  squirm  of  the 
body  and  an  emphatic  stamp  of  foot  on  the 
stone  floor.  He  had  been  touching  his  lute  as 
the  soldier  spoke,  first  in  a  soft  arpeggio,  then 
louder  and  louder,  till,  as  he  delivered  himself 
of  this  exclamation,  he  struck  a  chord  as  sudden 
as  a  whip-crack  right  at  Lopez's  ear.  Mine 
III.— I        n       17 


19-t  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Host  and  Blasco  smiled  broadly,  the  mastiff 
barked,  Roldan  looked  suddenly  up,  and  Annibal, 
cautiously  neutral,  looked  down.  The  boy  lifted 
longing  and  listening  eyes,  like  those  of  an  ex- 
iled spirit  waiting  for  voices  from  the  distant 
land  it  hailed  from.  Lopez  was  the  only  one 
unmoved.     He  bore  the  assault  like  a  rock. 

"  If  that's  a  hint,"  he  said  to  Juan,  "  the  com- 
pany should  ask  you  for  a  song,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Ay,  sing,  Juan,"  put  in  Mine  Host ;  '-some- 
thing brand-new." 

Juan  preluded  with  a  score  of  desultory 
notes,  then  sang,  in  a  voice  of  fine  masculine 
vibrations,  a  chanson  about  the  priest's  scandal 
of  Fedalma.  As  he  rolled  forth  the  melody 
there  came  a  constellation  of  black  eyes  all 
about  the  court.  Fat  Lola  leaned  on  the  bal- 
cony ;  thin  Alda  leaned  over  her  nodding  baby ; 
little  Pepe  strained  his  two  black  beads  of  eyes ; 
while  Lorenzo's  wife  stood  patting  his  head  and 
holding  in  her  arm  the  senior  baby.  These 
were  all  on  the  balcony ;  but  at  the  door  there 
was  a  knot  of  lank  boys  and  men  with  lazy 
shoulders  who  had  lounged  dreamily  within  hear- 
ing of  the  music. 

When  Juan  had  finished  he  was  urged  by 
Mine  Host  and  the  rest  to  give  another  ballad, 
and,  nothing  loath,  sang  again.  After  he  had 
done,  Roldan  rose  quietly  from  his  seat. 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  195 

"  Sirs,"  he  said,  "  you  will  hear  my  boy,  I  hope  ? 
It  is  very  hard  when  gentles  sing  for  nothing  to 
the  whole  town.  How  can  a  poor  man  live? 
We  must  go  to  the  Plaga  now;  but  who'll  give 
UB  pence  when  he  can  hear  hidalgos  for  nothing?" 

"  I'll  sing  no  more,  friend  ;  be  pacified,"  said 
Juan.     "  You  go  and  we'll  follow." 

The  little  group  went  slowly  out,  escorted  by 
all  the  idlers,  Annibal,  on  his  master's  shoulder, 
looking  gloomier  than  ever. 

"vShall  we  go?  All  of  us  together?"  said 
Lorenzo,  the  host,  gayly. 

"  Well,  not  I.  I'll  be  there  anon,"  answered 
the  Captain.  "  There's  a  strict  command  that 
all  our  Gypsy  prisoners  shall  be  lodged  in  the 
fort  to-night.     We  shall  meet  again." 

He  went  clanking  forth,  and  Blasco  called 
after  him,  "  Go,  sir,  with  God !"  Then  to  the 
others :  "  A  very  proper  and  soldierly  man. 
But  as  for  this  banishment  that  so  many  are 
hot  on,  it  pleases  me  very  little.  The  Jews  are 
not  fit  for  heaven,  but  they  are  most  useful  on 
earth,  and  when  God  sent  the  Gypsies  wan- 
dering in  punishment  for  not  sheltering  Our 
Lady  and  Saint  Joseph,  it  is  plain  he  saw  the 
use  they  would  be  to  the  Spaniards.  Shall  we 
banish  them  and  tell  God  we  know  better? 
They  might  serve  very  well  in  war  to  climb 
and  be  killed  and  fall  so  as  to  make  an  easy 


196  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ladder.  I  once  saw  a  Gypsy  sorcerer  kill  a 
man  who  came  to  seize  him :  talk  of  strength  ! 
swiftness,  too, — for  he  vanished ^while  we  were 
crossing  ourselves  like — say,  like " 

"  Like  a  swift  black  snake,"  suggested  Juan, 
without  looking  up  from  his  lute. 

"  Why,  did  you  see  him  ?"  asked  the  surprised 
silversmith. 

"  Not  then,  but  now,"  answered  Juan.  "  We 
have  a  Gypsy  here  in  Bedmar  whose  frame  has 
been  so  firmly  compacted  by  nature  that  it 
would  yield  a  dozen  types:  all  the  Spanish 
knights,  every  deity,  and  all  hell's  heroes 
writhe  like  demigods  beside  him." 

"  There,  there,  Juan,  don't  pause,"  laughed 
Mine  Host.  "  More  hyperbole.  Shoot  upward 
and  flare  into  meteors  before  you  sink  back  to 
the  dull  brown  fact !" 

"Nay,  I  prefer  fact,"  said  Blasco.  "What 
is  your  Gypsy  ?" 

Mine  Host  took  upon  himself  the  office  of 
narrator  as  being  more  likely  to  deal  in  prose 
than  Juan, 

"He's  chieftain  of  a  band  who  are  the  Moor's 
allies,"  said  he.  "The  Duke  surprised  them 
and  brought  them  home  as  captives  a  month 
ago.  He  needed  smiths  and  got  them,  and  de- 
prived the  Moor  of  some  archers  at  the  same 
time.     Juan's  pleasure  is  to  watch  them  forg- 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  197 

ing  and  to  talk  with  the  chief,  who,  I'll  wager,  is 
nothing  more  than  a  piece  of  stalwart  cunning." 

"  No !"  broke  in  Juan,  lustily.  "  My  inven- 
tion is  too  poor  to  fancy  Zarca  as  I  first  saw 
him.  He  was  stripped  then.  In  his  chieftain's 
gear  and  among  his  own  men  he  was  like  a 
royal  barb  followed  by  wild  Andalusian  colts. 
He  had  a  necklace  of  finest  gold,  and  wore  fine 
mail  and  a  rich  sword  and  belt.  When  they 
stripped  him  it  was  these  poor  things  that  lost 
grace,  not  he." 

"  Maybe,"  put  in  the  cautious  Blasco  ;  "  but 
nakedness  is  bad  for  trade, — then,  it's  not 
decent." 

"  Faith,  wisely  said !"  cried  Mine  Host, 
"Purge  your  speech,  Juan.  It's  over-full  of 
this  Gypsy.  Praise  the  Catholic  king,  rather. 
But  come  now,  let  us  go  see  this  juggler's  skill." 

The  time  of  day  had  come  in  Bedmar  when 
color  glows  without  glitter  and  every  object 
bears  a  silent  happiness  in  the  evening  light. 
The  Pla^a  where  the  church,  once  a  mosque, 
stood  seemed  to  widen  in  the  passive  air.  The 
ground  gently  sloped  up  to  the  church,  which 
was  girdled  with  low  white  houses.  High 
above  on  the  hill-tops  towered  a  strong  for- 
tress and  the  castle  wall.  The  breath  of  flowers 
and  aromatic  leaves  spread  over  the  roofs  from 
cool,   shadowed  patios,   and   fanned  the  dark 

17* 


198  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

faces   clustered   about  the  central  spot  where 
Eoldan  performed  his  tricks. 

Gilded  balls  began  to  play,  and  the  juggler's 
form  moved  in  graceful  harmony.  He  was  no 
longer  the  old  Eoldan,  dull,  hard,  and  weary ; 
but,  gloriously  holding  all  eyes,  he  was  king  of 
the  moment,  saving  when  Annibal  divided  the 
scene  and  played  the  comic  part  in  mimicry  of 
his  master.  Pablo  stood  beside  them  holding  his 
viol  and  awaiting  the  command  to  begin. 

Juan  and  Mine  Host,  with  Blasco,  came  up 
and  found  their  way  into  the  midst  of  the 
crowd.  Lorenzo,  indeed,  knit  them  all  into 
one  family  by  showing  all  alike  good  will  and 
recognition.  Juan  cast  his  glance  around  till 
it  fell  upon  little  Pepita,  the  blondest  maid  in 
all  Bedmar,  with  red  hair  and  a  saucy  lip  and 
nose. 

The  gilded  balls  soon  ceased  to  play,  and 
Annibal  began  to  leap  through  the  hoops. 
Then  Eoldan  spread  his  carpet  and  showed 
strange  feats  of  legerdemain.  Next  he  tum- 
bled, while  Annibal  imitated  his  antics,  and  as 
this  was  going  on,  Pablo  began  to  play  his  viol. 
But,  presently,  he  dropped  his  bow,  as  if  car- 
ried away  by  the  music  into  singing,  and 
poured  forth  in  a  wondrous  voice  a  ballad  of 
Spring.  He  sang  again  and  again,  until,  at 
last,   some  voices    shouted,    "The    dance,  the 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  199 

dance !"  Then  Pablo  again  took  up  the  bow, 
and  Pepita,  as  ready  as  a  bird  that  sees  the 
corn  sprinkled,  put  forth  her  foot  at  Juan's 
nod  and  smiles  and  sounded  the  castanets, 
which  were  held  ready  in  her  hands.  Eoldan, 
followed  by  Annibal,  gathered  pence  among 
the  scattering  crowd,  while  the  carpet  still  lay 
on  the  ground  inviting  tiptoeing  feet. 

Suddenly,  with  a  gliding  motion  like  a  flame, 
a  lithe  figure,  all  robed  in  white  and  saffron, 
flashed  across  the  circle,  and  paused  with  up- 
lifted arms  and  a  regal  head  in  its  midst. 

Juan  stood  fixed  and  pale.  Pepita  stepped 
backward  into  the  ring.  The  voices  fell  to 
more  passive  tones,  half  of  welcome  and  half 
of  astonishment. 

"  Lady  Fedalma  !"  was  the  cvy.  "Will  she 
dance  with  us  ?" 

Swayed  by  a  passionate  impulse  and  feeling 
that  all  life  was  music,  Fedalma  moved  like 
Miriam  of  old  in  a  religious  dance  on  the 
shore  of  the  Eed  Sea.  At  first  a  reverent  si- 
lence fell  upon  the  crowd ;  but  the  admiring 
tension  soon  found  relief  in  sighs  of  delight 
and  low  murmurs  of  applause.  Even  Juan 
succumbed  to  the  impulse.  He  took  up  his 
lute  and  struck  in  with  the  melody,  raised  now 
and  again  to  a  clear  flood  by  Pablo's  sweet 
voice,  which  died  away  only  too  soon. 


200  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  stirring  notes  of  the  music  all  urged 
Fedalma  on.  Earth  and  heaven  seemed  one 
to  her,  and  life  a  gladness  trembling  on  the 
outer  edge  of  rapture.  She  moved  more  and 
more  swiftly,  and  seemed  each  moment  to  glow 
with  a  more  glorious  presence.  Circling  about, 
she  lightly  bent  and  lifted  her  tambourine  high 
up,  making  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifted  it 
higher  still,  stretching  her  beautiful  left  arm 
to  the  utmost.  The  crowd  shouted  exultingly, 
forgetting  poverty  and  care  in  the  rich  moment 
of  possessing  her. 

But  suddenly,  at  one  point,  the  throng  was 
pushed  and  hustled  apart  and  something  ap- 
proached. It  was  the  band  of  Gypsy  prisoners. 
Soldiers  were  in  front  and  at  the  rear,  and  the 
gallant  Lopez  walked  aloof,  commanding  them. 
The  Gypsies  were  chained  in  couples,  all  saving 
one,  and  walked  in  a  dark  file,  with  grand  bare 
legs  and  arms,  and  a  savage  melancholy  in 
their  eyes  that  gleamed  through  their  black 
clouds  of  hair.  They  came  full  into  sight  at 
last  and  stretched  to  the  centre  of  the  open 
space.  Fedalma,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweeps, 
again  faced  the  centre  and  swung  about,  her 
tambourine  lifted  high  in  the  air.  At  that 
moment,  with  a  stupendous  throbbing  like  a 
solemn  voice  from  the  grave,  the  great  passing 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  201 

bell  tolled  to  prayer.  At  it8  mighty  beat  the 
light  seemed  to  sink  as  if  awe-struck.  Speech 
and  action  paused.  Little  children  gazed  with 
lips  parted,  and  most  of  the  men  and  women 
prayed.  Not  many  of  the  soldiers  prayed ;  but 
the  Gypsies  stood  as  unmoved  as  pagan  statues 
with  a  proud  level  stare. 

The  one  who  was  chained  singly,  at  the  head 
of  the  file,  turned  to  face  Fedalma.  She  stood 
motionless  with  her  arm  uplifted,  guarding  the 
tambourine  lest,  if  it  were  too  suddenly  low- 
ered, its  jingle  might  mar  the  religious  pause. 
She  seemed  to  reverence  the  general  prayer, 
though  she  did  not  pray  herself,  but  stood  gaz- 
ing into  the  Gypsy's  eyes.  Those  eyes  were  like 
the  sadness  of  the  world  rebuking  her. 

Why  does  he  look  at  her  and  she  at  him  ? 
His  knit  brow,  inflated  nostril,  and  scornful, 
compressed  lips  seemed  to  be  a  dark  hieroglyph 
of  her  coming  fate.  Father  Isidor  had  terrible 
eyes  and  was  her  enemy.  She  knew  it  and 
defied  him.  But  this  Gypsy, — was  he  her 
enemy  too  ?  She  stood  quelled.  The  impetu- 
ous joy  in  her  veins  seemed  turned  to  awe  and 
self-doubt.  The  brief  minute  stretched  infi- 
nitely, filled  with  dreams  by  a  dilated  con- 
sciousness. 

But  now  it  was  gone.  The  pious  murmur 
ceased.     The   Gypsies  moved  onward  at   the 


202  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

command  of  Lopez,  and  the  careless  noises 
blent  confusedly  away.  The  ring  closed  again, 
and  many  called  for  Pablo's  music,  while  all 
eyes  were  turned  towards  the  carpet.  It  lay 
bare  and  dim.  Twilight  was  there.  The  bright 
lady  had  departed. 

II. 

Duke  Silva  had  doffed  his  mail,  and  with  it 
had  laid  aside  the  heavier  cares  of  war.  He 
had  not  seen  Fedalma ;  but  felt  that  he  had 
now  by  hard  work  in  the  field  earned  the  joy 
of  wooing  her ;  and,  with  the  wonted  observ- 
ances of  Spanish  gentlemen,  he  sent  to  ask 
permission  to  do  her  homage. 

As  he  sat  one  day  in  his  handsome  room  in 
the  castle,  where  among  other  rich  furniture 
was  a  table  on  Which  lay  a  costly  jewel-casket, 
some  one  knocked,  and,  being  permitted  to 
enter,  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo  came  in. 

"  You  look  perturbed,  my  son,"  he  said,  in 
the  grave  voice  of  a  priest.  "  Do  I  thrust  my- 
self between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
that  wears  a  more  smiling  face  than  my  own?" 

"  Father,  it  is  enough  that  you  are  here,"  said 
the  Duke.  "  I  await  your  commands ;  indeed, 
I  should  have  sought  an  earlier  audience." 

"To   give,    I   trust,   good   reasons    for   your 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  203 

change  of  policy."  The  Pi'ior  shot  a  keen 
sidelong  glance  at  the  Duke. 

"  Strong  reasons,  father,"  was  the  answer. 

"Ay,  but  are  they  good  ones?"  urged  the 
Prior. 

"I  will  submit  them  to  your  strict  judg- 
ment," said  the  Duke.  "  Late  despatches  sent 
by  the  Count  of  Bavien,  without  prompting 
from  me,  have  made  the  course  which  would 
have  been  rational  peremptory.  Without  the 
forces  furnished  by  allies  the  siege  of  Guadix 
would  be  madness.  More  than  this,  El  Zagal 
has  his  eyes  on  this  very  town  of  Bedmar.  In 
three  weeks  from  this  the  Master  and  Lord  of 
Aguilar  will  bring  their  forces.  We  shall  catch 
the  Moors  in  a  trap.  Those  are  my  reasons, 
father." 

"  And  they  sound  well,"  returned  the  Prior. 
"  But  rumor  adds  another :  that  you,  com- 
manding in  the  Holy  War  of  God,  pray  Satan 
to  retard  the  fight  so  that  you  may  have  time 
for  feasting, — in  short,  that  you  may  marry. 
That  you,  a  Spanish  duke,  mean  to  wed  like  a 
clown !" 

"  Rumor  grows  eloquent  on  your  lips,  father," 
said  the  Duke,  with  half  a  reproach. 

"  Is  she  true  ?"  persisted  the  Prior. 

"  Perhaps.  I  justify  only  my  public  acts, 
Dot  my  private  joys,"  said  Duke  Silva. 


204  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  And  yet  you  boast  a  conscience  that  con- 
trols you  and  watches  your  knightly  honor," 
said  the  ecclesiastic,  hotly.  "  You,  a  helpless 
slave,  whose  will  is  strangled  by  lust  and  blind 
passion.     Oh,  a  famous  conscience,  believe  me !" 

"  Pause  there !"  cried  the  Duke,  sternly. 
"  More  would  be  too  much  even  from  holy  lips. 
I  own  to  no  love  but  such  as  guards  my  honor, 
since  it  guards  hers  whom  I  love.  I  will  suffer 
no  foul  words  to  stain  the  gift  I  mean  to  lay  at 
her  feet !" 

"Verse-maker's  talk!"  exclaimed  the  Prior. 
"Your  honor  safe?  Tell  me,  what  honor  has 
a  man  with  double  bonds, — a  Christian  knight 
married  to  an  infidel?" 

"  An  infidel !"     The  Duke  spoke  menacingly. 

"  Who  may  one  day  spurn  the  cross,"  went 
on  the  Prior,  heedless  of  the  interruption. 
"And  you  call  that  honor!  Apostate's  honor? 
— harlot's  chastity  ?  Iscariot's !" 

"  Strong  words,"  said  the  Duke,  "  but  they 
cannot  scorch  me.  Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of 
the  Church.  She  has  been  baptized  and  brought 
up  in  the  faith." 

"  Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who,  neverthe- 
less, are  brides  of  Satan." 

"  Fedalma  is  no  Jewess !"  said  the  Duke, 
angrily. 

"  But  she  bears  the  marks  of  the  unbaptized 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  205 

races,"  persisted  the  Prior.  "  Her  blood  is  as 
unchristian  as  the  leopard's." 

"  Say  as  unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's 
before  the  angel  spoke  the  All  hail !" 

The  Prior  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Did  I  not  speak  the  truth  ?"  he  cried. 
"  Your  passion  already  weaves  blasphemies ! 
And  because  of  this  woman,  who  is  fit  only  to 
make  sport  for  Moorish  palaces, — a  lewd  Hero- 
dias " 

"  Stop !"  cried  the  Duke ;  "  no  other  man, 
priest  though  he  were,  would  have  had  his 
throat  left  free  for  the  passage  of  such  words ! 
You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolu- 
tion with  bugbear  names,  as  women  frighten  a 
child,  and  after  that  to  profane  Fedalma." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  need,"  said  the  priest,  scorn- 
fully. "  She  has  profaned  herself.  Go  see  her 
dancing  even  now  in  the  Pla^a." 

"  It  is  false !"  roared  the  Duke. 

"  Go  prove  it  false,  then."  The  Prior  drew 
on  his  cowl  and  turned  away. 

Duke  Silva  rushed  through  the  corridor  to 
where  Fedalma  dwelt  in  the  apartments  of  the 
old  Duchess.  He  knocked  at  the  door,  and  re- 
ceiving no  response,  opened  it,  and  found  the 
rooms  empty.  He  called,  in  a  muffled  voice, 
"  Fedalma,"  then  again,  louder,  for  Ifiez,  the 
trusted  nurse,  then  searched  the  terrace  garden, 

18 


206  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

still  calling  at  intervals.  There  was  no  answer, 
and  he  hurried  back,  giving  orders  to  pages 
and  ushers,  as  he  went,  that  they  should  find 
the  Lady  Fedalma  at  once.  He  reached  his 
room  again,  where  the  priest's  menace  seemed 
to  linger  in  the  air,  snatched  his  cloak  and 
plumed  hat,  and,  scarce  thinking  why,  grasped 
his  poniard. 

"  Here,  Perez !"  he  called  ;  "  hasten  to  Don 
Alvar ;  tell  him  Lady  Fedalma  must  be  found. 
She  is  lost.  He  must  send  every  way.  I  my- 
self am  going  to  seek  her  in  the  town." 

As  Perez  opened  the  door,  then  moved  aside  for 
the  Duke's  passage  outward,  Fedalma  entered. 

"  Fedalma !"  cried  the  Duke,  half  in  joy  that 
she  had  returned  and  yet  half  in  anger  at  her 
absence. 

"O  my  lord!"  she  said,  innocently,  "you 
have  come  back  and  I  have  been  wandering !" 

"  You  meant  I  should  not  know  it,"  he  said, 
coldly,  but  with  suppressed  agitation. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  should  have  told  you  afterwards, 
as  I  told  you  of  the  birds  I  set  free  against 
your  wish,  else  you  would  have  hindered  me," 
she  said,  archly. 

The  Duke  spoke  with  haughty  coldness : 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  prompting  there 
was  stronger  than  my  wish  which  made  you 
wander?" 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  207 

Fodalma  advanced  a  step  towards  him  with  a 
sudden  look  of  anxiety. 

"  Are  you  angry  ?"  she  said. 

"Angry?"  The  Duke  smiled  with  bitterness. 
"  A  deeply-wounded  man  may  be  too  much 
pained  to  feel  anger." 

"  You — deeply  wounded  ?" 

"  Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
the  heart  of  my  ambition,  Fedalma?  You 
alone  can  strike  it  mortally." 

"  No,  no,  Silva ;  some  one  has  deceived  you. 
I  only  went  to  see  the  world  with  Iflez, — see 
the  town  and  the  people.  It  was  no  harm.  I 
did  not  mean  to  dance.  It  happened  at 
last " 

"  God,  it  is  true,  then !  true  that  you  flung 
yourself  out  on  the  dusty  highway  for  common 
eyes  to  see !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  she  said.  "  The  air  was 
filled  with  music, — there  was  a  song  that  seemed 
the  voice  of  the  eventide,  a  glowing  light  that 
seemed  to  be  our  love,  mine  and  yours,  Silva. 
It  trembled  through  my  limbs,  and  all  the 
people  shouted  for  the  dance.  I  longed  to  dance 
before  them, — nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  danced, — . 
there  was  no  longing.  And,  once  done,  you 
must  say  it  was  not  wrong.  I  pray  you  say 
so!" 
Fedalma  had  gradually  drawn  near  to  Don 


208  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Silva,  and  as  she  spoke  these  last  words,  they 
fell  into  each  other's  arms  in  an  embrace  of 
forgiveness. 

"  Dangerous  rebel !"  said  the  Duke,  holding 
both  her  hands  in  his.  "  If  the  world  without 
were  only  as  pure  as  the  world  within.  But, 
dear,  all  eyes,  even  when  they  look  on  you,  do 
not  shed  a  blessing." 

"  Ah,  no,  no !"  she  said,  sadly.  "  I  meant  to 
tell  you  how  my  dancing  came  to  an  end.  There 
was  one  man  among  the  rest,  but  he  was  first, 
with  irons  on  his  limbs.  When  the  bell  tolled 
and  the  people  began  to  pray  and  stood,  I  paus- 
ing among  them,  then  he  looked  at  me.  Oh, 
Silva,  such  a  man !  I  thought  he  must  have 
risen  from  the  dark  place  of  imprisoned  souls 
to  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 
His  look  found  me  there, — seemed  to  have  trav- 
elled far  to  find  me  and  chill  my  blood  with  the 
cold  iron  of  unknown  bonds.  The  joy  in  my 
veins  was  frozen.  I  danced  no  more.  Who  is 
he,  Silva?  Who  are  the  prisoners  with  him? 
Are  they  Moors  ?" 

''  No,  they  are  Gypsies, — strong  and  cunning 
knaves,"  said  the  Duke.  "  The  man  you  mean 
is  their  chief  He  is  an  ally  of  the  Moors,  and 
they  will  sorely  miss  him.  Such  dread  was 
natural  when  he  turned  that  savage  glance  on 
you.     But  forget  it,  dear.     This  hour  is  worth 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  209 

whole  days  when  we  are  apart.     Danger  urges 
us  to  make  quick  resolutions." 

"What  danger?"  said  Fedalma,  with  instant 
alarm. 

"  There  is  a  dark  enmity  that  is  plotting  to 
part  us.  Our  only  defence  is  a  speedy  mar- 
riage. It  must  be  secretly  done,  then  publicly 
declared.  I  beseech  you,  dearest,  consent  to 
this  and  trust  me.  There  is  great  need.  The 
bishop  is  my  friend  and  furthers  the  marriage. 
Our  priest  will  be  despatched  from  Jaen  to- 
night. I  shall  march  out  with  a  strong  escort 
to  meet  him.  Before  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
if  you  will,  we  may  be  wedded." 

"  Must  it  be  in  secret  ?" 

"  Nobody  shall  know  it  beforehand  but  Inez 
and  Don  Alva.  But  when  the  vows  have  once 
been  taken,  my  whole  household  shall  acknowl- 
edge 5^ou  as  their  duchess.  No  man  can  then 
aim  a  blow  at  you  except  through  my  breast. 
There,  put  the  seal  of  your  dear  lips  upon 
that." 

She  kissed  him  tenderly  and  looked  earnestly 
into  his  eyes.  Then  breaking  away,  she  stood 
at  a  little  distance  from  him  with  a  look  of 
roguish  delight. 

"  Now  I  am  so  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 
before  I  became  a  duchess, — so  glad  I  gave  poor 
Fedalma  all  her  wish !" 

III.— 0  18* 


210  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Don  Silva  drew  her  towards  the  jewel-casket 
on  the  table  and  opened  it  to  her  eager  eyes. 

"  You  know  these  jewels,  Fedalma,"  said  he. 
"They  are  precious  signs  of  an  honor  long 
transmitted  and  ennobled  through  the  gen- 
erations by  worthy  bearing.  I  give  them  to 
you,  now, — ask  you  to  take  them, — place  the 
trust  of  our  house  in  your  keeping.  These 
rubies, — see " 

Fedalma  bent  over  the  casket  and  looked  at 
the  jewels  with  womanly  delight. 

"Ah,  I  remember  them!"  she  cried.  "  When 
I  was  a  child  I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive.  I 
used  to  sit  and  look  at  them  with  awe.  Now 
they  will  be  mine !"  She  held  them  up  in  her 
ecstasy.  "  Come,  I'll  put  them  on.  Help  me, 
my  lord." 

Don  Silva  took  up  a  jewel  and  placed  it 
against  her  ear. 

"  Let  us  try,"  he  said.  "  Take  out  your  ear- 
ring, sweet." 

She  did  so,  and  he  put  in  the  jewel. 

"  I  was  right,"  she  said.  "  These  rubies  have 
life  in  them." 

He  was  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second 
ear-ring  while  she  stooped  over  the  casket. 
She  raised  her  head  with  a  laugh. 

"Your  lordly  hands  can  never  do  it,"  she 
said.     "Let  me  try." 


The  Spanish  G-ypsy.  211 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  I  like  the  task,  but  you 
must  be  still." 

She  stood  perfectly  still,  clasping  her  hands 
together.  Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  was  heard 
outside.  She  started  with  an  expression  of 
pain. 

"What  is  that  sound,  Silva?"  she  asked. 
"  How  cruel  and  jarring  it  is !  Listen  !"  She 
tried  to  start  away  towards  the  window,  but 
Don  Silva  detained  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  the 
workmen  in  the  gallery." 

"  It  is  the  sound  of  fetters  !"  she  said.  "  Hark ! 
they  are  passing  along.  I  know  it  is  those 
Gypsy  prisoners.  I  saw  them  and  heard  their 
chains.  Oh,  my  lord,  do  you  not  wish  the 
world  were  different  ?" 

"  When  the  war  is  over  it  will  be  different, 
You,  yourself,  will  change  it  by  wedding  me, 
dearest." 

"  I  shall  beg  a  great  deal  of  kindness  from 
you  for  those  who  are  less  happy,"  she  said, 
gravely ;  then  brightening :  "  Oh,  I  shall  rule 
you,  Silva !" 

She  broke  away  from  him  and  returned  to 
the  jewels,  taking  up  a  necklace  and  clasping 
it  about  her  throat,  while  he  lifted  a  circlet  of 
diamonds  and  rubies  towards  her  head. 

"  But  I  shall  persist  in  loving  you,"  he  said, 


212  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

gayly.  "  Now  take  the  coronet."  He  placed 
the  circlet  on  her  head. 

She  went  to  the  casket  again.  "  Here  is  gold, 
— a  necklace  of  pure  gold,"  she  cried.  "  But  you 
have  worn  this,  my  lord  ?" 

"  No,  love,"  he  answered,  "  I  never  wore  it. 
Lay  it  down."  Then  joining  both  her  hands 
and  holding  them  up  between  his  own,  he  said, 
"  Why  look  at  jewels  any  longer  ?  Look  at 
me  now." 

"  Oh,  you  dear  heaven !"  she  murmured,  gaz- 
ing up  at  him.  "  I  should  see  nothing  if  you 
were  gone !" 

"  But  I  must  go  this  very  night,"  he  said. 
"  And  will  you  rise  and  wait  for  me  at  dawn?" 

She  nestled  into  his  arms. 

"  I  shall  surely  come,"  he  said,  "  and  then  we 
shall  be  married.  Farewell,  love."  And  he 
kissed  her  and  went  away. 

"  Poor,  poor  gems  !"  she  said,  looking  at  the 
jewels.  "  Pray  you,  love  me.  Let  us  be 
glad  together.  And  you,  gold," — she  took  up 
the  gold  necklace, — "  will  you  love  me,  too  ? 
Will  you  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe  from 
hurtful  eyes  ?"  She  spread  it  out,  meaning  to 
clasp  it  on  her  neck.  Then  paused,  as  if  star- 
tled, and  held  it  before  her.  "  Why,  it  is  mag- 
ical !  He  says  he  never  wore  it,  yet  these 
twisted  lines  seem  to  bring  me  a  message  from 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  213 

the  dead  past.  Perhaps  I  have  lived  before  in 
some  strange  world,  and  all  this  passionate  love 
and  pain  are  old  memories." 

While  Fedalma  was  looking  at  the  necklace 
Juan  had  entered  unobserved. 

"  Seilora,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

She  started  and,  gathering  the  necklace  to- 
gether, turned  around. 

"  Oh,  Juan,  it  is  you  !" 

"  I  met  the  Duke,"  Juan  explained,  "  and 
when  he  ordered  some  one  to  wait  on  you  and 
carry  a  burden  you  would  give  him,  I  prayed 
leave  to  serve  you.  Don  Silva  owes  me  a  score 
of  wishes  that  I  have  never  claimed,  but  this 
one  of  serving  you  weighs  as  much  as  all  the 
rest  together." 

"  That  sounds  well,"  she  said.  "  You  turn 
your  speeches  as  prettily  as  your  songs." 

"  Is  not  that  the  Gypsy's  necklace  ?"  He 
pointed  to  the  jewel  in  her  hand.  "  How  cu- 
riously it  is  wrought " 

"  The  Gypsy's  ?"  She  turned  with  aston- 
ishment.    "  Do  you  know  its  history  ?" 

"  No  farther  back  than  when  it  was  taken 
from  the  Gypsy  chief's  neck." 

"  What !"  she  asked,  eagerly.  "  The  one  I 
saw  in  the  Pla^a?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?" 


214  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Something  and  nothing,  lady.  I  have  often 
talked  with  him.  He  seems  to  say  much,  yet 
he  is  a  wizard  who  draws  down  rain  by  sprink- 
ling,— casts  out  a  sharp-hooked  question  that 
cannot  fail  to  catch  an  answer." 

"  It's  hard  that  such  a  man  should  be  chained 
to  work,"  she  said,  sadly, 

"  Oh,  he  is  dangerous."  Juan  nodded  his  head 
to  give  emphasis  to  his  words. 

"  I  thought  his  eyes  showed  no  hatred,"  said 
Fedalma.  "  If  the  Gypsies  are  savage  beasts 
and  must  be  hunted,  let  them  be  set  free  and 
have  the  benefit  of  the  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
and  fight  for  life  and  their  offspring.  They 
may  well  hate  cages  as  I  hate  them.  I  will 
beg  the  Duke  to  release  them." 

"'Pardon  me,  lady,"  insinuated  Juan.  *'  But 
what  if  the  Duke  does  not  love  to  hear  of 
Gypsies  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  brave,  and  so  cunning !  I  always 
prevail.  But  now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you 
will  be  servant  to  your  pupil,  carry  out  this 
casket — no,  not  the  necklace.  liiez  will  be 
there." 

Juan  went  out,  and  Fedalma  again  took  up 
the  necklace,  murmuring  over  it  words  which 
showed  anew  how  deeply  its  owner's  fate  had 
touched  her  heart.  She  vowed  to  herself  that, 
with  or  without  the  Duke's  consent,  he  should 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  215 

be   free.     But   the   Duke  would  consent     The 
Duchess  Fedalma  might  do  what  she  would. 

III. 

Fedalma,  splendidly  dressed  and  adorned 
with  pearls  and  rubies,  was  walking  up  and 
down  a  large  chamber  opening  on  a  terrace- 
garden.  The  trees  were  visible  through  the 
window  in  the  faint  moonlight,  which  also  cast 
a  fair  halo  over  the  rich  interior.  Flowers 
were  hanging  about  the  windows,  lit  up  dimly 
by  tapers,  while  the  casket  of  jewels  lay  open 
on  a  table.  She  paused  by  a  window  to  gather 
some  jasmines,  then  resumed  her  walk,  some- 
times musing  silently,  sometimes  murmuring 
her  thoughts  in  low,  unconscious  words. 

Suddenly  something  fell  behind  her.  She 
turned  quickly  to  see  what  it  was.  A  little 
bird  had  fallen  on  the  floor.  She  took  it  up 
and  found  it  still  warm.  There  was  a  strip  of 
linen  tied  under  its  wing.  It  was  streaked 
with  blood  she  thought  at  first,  then  found  the 
stains  were  written  words.     They  read  : 

"Dear  child,  Fedalma,  be  brave,  give  no 
alarm, — your  father  comes!" 

She  let  the  bird  fall. 

"  My  father — comes,"  she  said,  scarce  heed- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  words.  She  turned 
in  quivering  expectation  towards  the  window. 


216  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

Nothing  was  there  and  all  was  silent.  But  in 
ah  instant  Zarea  appeared.  He  entered  noise- 
lessly, then  stood  still  at  his  full  height  some 
distance  from  Fedalma. 

"  It  is  he  !"  she  murmured,  in  an  awe-stricken 
voice. 

"  You  know  who  I  am,  then  ?"  he  asked. 

"  The  prisoner  I  saw  in  the  PlaQa,"  she  said. 
"And  this  necklace?" 

"  It  was  played  with  by  your  little  fingers 
when  it  hung  about  my  neck  fifteen  years  ago," 
he  said,  gravely  yet  tenderly. 

Fedalma  looked  at  the  necklace,  then  spoke 
as  if  to  herself: 

"  Fifteen  years  ago  !" 

"  The  very  day  I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a 
tiny  gown  of  scarlet  cloth  embroidered  with 
gold.  It  was  clasped  in  front  by  two  gold 
coins.  The  one  on  the  left  was  split  in  two 
right  across  the  king's  head.  You  see  I  know 
it  all  by  heart." 

Fedalma  grew  paler  and  trembled  again. 
"  Yes.  It  is  all  true,"  she  said.  '•  I  have  the 
gown,  the  clasps,  the  braid, — all  true !  but  they 
are  sorely  tarnished  :  it  was  so  long  ago !" 

"  It  seems  but  yesterday  to  me,"  said  Zarca, 
"  for,  till  to-day,  you  have  always  been  as  that 
little  child.  You  were  not  all  stolen.  You  had 
a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart." 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  217 

Fedalma  let  fall  the  necklace  and  made  an 
impulsive  movement  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hands. 

He  reached  his  arms  to  welcome  the  caress  ; 
but  Fedalma  drew  back  before  she  had  touched 
him. 

"  How  did  you  know  me — no,  I  mean,  how 
did  you  lose  me  ?"  she  asked,  pathetically. 

"  Poor  child !"  he  answered.  "  Your  father 
and  his  rags  are  welcome.     That  is  well." 

Fedalma  looked  at  him  with  admiration. 
Her  whole  heart  was  moved  towards  him. 

"  I  lost  you  by  accident,"  he  went  on.  "  Ma- 
rauding Spaniards  swept  like  a  storm  near  to 
our  camp,  and  snatched  you  up  when  your 
nurse,  Zino,  as  she  confessed,  had  gone  to  the 
stream  for  a  drink.  I  never  saw  you  again 
until  you  danced  in  the  Plaga  to-day, — making 
sport  for  your  people's  enemies." 

"  It  was  not  for  sport !"  she  cried,  vehemently. 
"I  danced  for  joy, — for  love  of  the  whole  world. 
When  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed 
with  your  pain.  "  Then  with  a  new  impulse : 
"  But  how  were  you  sure  I  was  your  child?" 

"I  had  talked  with  one  named  Juan.  I 
learned  how  you  had  been  brought  up  by  the 
Spaniards,  and  had  grown  to  such  perfection 
that  the  Duke  had  wooed  you  for  his  Duchess. 
Then  I  knew  you  were  the  child  that  Lambra 
K  19 


218  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

bore  me  an  hour  before  the  Christians  had 
hurried  her  to  death.  Therefore  I  came  to 
claim  you,  not  from  the  Spaniard,  but  from 
yourself." 

Fedalma  sank  on  her  knees  before  him  with 
a  low  sob.  He  stooped  to  kiss  her  brow  and 
laid  his  hands  on  her  head. 

"  Then  my  child  owns  her  father  ?"  he  said. 

"  Father !"  she  murmured.  "  I  will  eat  dust 
before  I  deny  the  flesh  I  spring  from." 

"  There  spoke  my  true  daughter.  Away  with 
these  rubies !"  He  seized  the  circlet  and  flunor 
it  on  the  ground. 

Fedalma  started  up  with  strong  emotion  and 
shrank  backward. 

"  Such  a  crown  is  infamy  around  a  Zincala's 
brow !"  he  cried. 

Fedalma  stood  silent  over  against  him,  gazing 
into  his  face.     Presently  she  said,  falteringly, — 

"  Then — I — was  born — a  Zincala  ?" 

"  Of  blood  as  unmixed  as  virgin  juice,"  he 
answered,  proudly. 

"  Of  a  race  more  outcast  and  despised  than 
the  Moor  or  Jew,"  she  muttered. 

"  A  race  never  taught  by  a  prophet  how  to 
make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn,  a 
glorious  banner  to  stir  the  air  they  breathe 
with  pride.  My  destiny  is  to  guide  them  forth 
to   a   new  land   where   they  shall   kindle  our 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  219 

first  altar-fire  from  settled  hearths.  The  land 
is  waiting  for  them,  and  they  await  me,  their 
chief,  who  am  a  prisoner.  All  depends  on  you, 
my  child." 

Fedalma  rose  and  looked  solemnly  at  him, 

"  Your  child  is  ready,  father !"  she  said. 

Then  she  told  him  how,  on  the  morrow, 
she  was  to  wed  the  Duke  secretly,  and  when 
this  was  done  she  would  declare  her  birth 
before  the  whole  household,  and  so  win  his 
freedom. 

"  And  the  Duke, — he  will  be  your  son,"  she 
said.  "He  will  send  you  forth  with  honors. 
Then  I'll  clasp  this  badge  on  you  before  them 
all  and  lift  my  brow  for  you  to  kiss.  I  will  crj'' 
aloud,  '  I  glory  in  my  father !'  " 

Zarca  smiled  sadly.  He  showed  her  how 
hopeless  was  such  a  course,  and  she  drew  back 
discouraged.  She  mused  a  little,  then  spoke 
what  was  in  her  heart.  Silva's  love  for  her  was 
stronger  than  all  hate.  He  could  never  hate 
the  race  which  bore  what  he  loved  best  in  the 
world.  To-morrow,  after  she  was  married,  all 
the  Gypsies  should  be  set  free. 

"  Too  late,  my  child,"  said  Zarca.  "  Too  poor 
a  service.  The  woman  who  hopes  to  save  her 
tribe  must  not  expect  to  do  it  by  easy  prayers 
in  her  lover's  ear.  You  were  born  in  the  dark 
man's  tent  and  lifted  up  in  sight  of  the  whole 


220  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

tribe,  who  greeted   you   with    shouts   of  joy. 
Yours  is  other  worli,  Fedalma." 

"  What  work,— what  is  it  you  demand  of 
me  ?"  she  asked,  in  wonder. 

"  A  fatal  deed,"  he  answered. 

A  new  thought  entered  her  mind.  He  meant 
to  part  her  from  the  Duke.  She  was  sorely 
distressed,  and  spoke  passionately  of  her  love 
for  him. 

"  I  know  well  the  first  wail  of  spirits  called 
to  a  great  destiny,"  said  Zarca.  "It  is  in 
vain,  my  daughter!  Lay  the  young  eagle  in 
whatever  nest  you  may,  the  cry  of  the  eagles 
overhead  vibrate  prophetically  through  its  frame 
till  it  spreads  its  wings  and  poises  itself  for 
flight.  This  is  what  you  must  do.  My  com- 
rades are  filing  off  their  chains  in  a  low  turret 
by  the  battlements,  where  we  are  locked.  We 
had  files  hidden  in  our  shaggy  hair  and  ropes  in 
our  clothes.  I  found  a  friend  among  the  jailers, 
who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  ally  of  the  Moor.  Now, 
listen :  By  yonder  terrace  there  is  a  narrow 
stairway  cut  in  the  rock.  At  one  point  in  its 
straggling  course  it  branches  off  towards  a  low 
wooden  door  that  looks  like  one  piece  with  the 
rock.  Open  that  door ;  it  leads  through  a  broad 
passage  underground  a  good  half-mile  out  to 
the  open  plain.  It  was  made  for  escape  in  case 
of  siege.     You  know  the  number  of  the  steps 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  221 

that  lead  to  the  door,  and  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 
You  will  open  that  door  and  fly  with  us." 

Fedalma  receded  a  little  and  gathered  herself 
up  in  an  attitude  of  resolution. 

"JS"o,  I  will  never  fly,"  she  said.  "Never 
forsake  the  chief  half  of  my  soul  where  my 
love  lies !  I  swear  to  set  you  free,  but  do  not 
ask  more  than  that ;  it  is  impossible.  Wait  till 
the  morning  and  I  will  win  your  freedom  openly. 
Silva  will  deny  me  nothing." 

"Till  you  ask  for  what  he  is  powerless  to 
give,"  said  Zarca,  contemptuously.  "The  sol- 
diers even  now  murmur  that  he  risks  the  town 
to  marry  a  bride  too  low  for  him.  They'll  mur- 
mur louder  if  captives  like  us  are  freed.  Nay, 
murmurs  may  turn  at  last  to  the  dagger,  for 
your  Duke  has  a  pious  cousin  for  his  heir." 

"  Then  I  will  set  you  free  now !"  she  said, 
firmly.    "  It  may  put  my  marriage  off,  but " 

"  You  cannot  free  us  and  go  back  to  him," 
Zarca  said. 

"Why?" 

"  I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth." 

"  You  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Yes ;  for  I'd  have  you  choose !" 

"  1  owe  only  a  daughter's  allegiance,  not  a 
slave's,"  she  said,  haughtily. 

"You  belong  to  your  tribe!"  He  spoke  as  a 
chieftain  rather  than  a  father. 

19* 


222  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  No !  I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me,  and  whom 
Hove!" 

Zarca  reproached  and  mocked  her  by  turns, 
appealed  to  her  native  instincts,  and  dwelt  upon 
the  sufferings  of  his  people  left  without  a  leader 
or  an  heir  to  his  line.  She  melted  under  his 
fiery  Avords  and  knelt  at  last,  praying  him  to 
carry  her  away  by  force  rather  than  make  her 
choose.  He  told  her  that  his  thirty  followers 
were  assembled  outside  on  the  terrace,  and  that 
he,  her  father,  waited  for  her  to  lead  them  forth 
to  liberty. 

"  Now  choose  to  save  or  destroy.  Say  you 
will  curse  your  race !"  he  cried. 

"  No,  no,  I  will  not  say  it.  I  will  go.  I  will  not 
take  a  heaven  haunted  by  shrieks  of  misery. 
I  can  never  shrink  back  into  bliss.  My  heart 
has  grown  too  big  with  the  things  that  might 
be.  Some  happier  bride  shall  wear  these  jewels." 
She  sank  on  a  seat  and  took  off  the  rubies  and 
pearls.  "  Now,  good  gems,  we  are  to  part,"  she 
said.  "  Speak  tenderly  of  me  always  to  Silva." 
Then  to  Zarca :  "  I  will  strangle  this  yearning 
self,  father.  I  will  wed  the  curse  that  blights  my 
race.     Come  now,  I  am  ready." 

But  he  bade  her  write  to  the  Duke ;  and  mur- 
muring the  while  that  Silva  would  know,  would 
understand  her,  she  wrote  what  Zarca  sug- 
gested : 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  223 

"  Silva,  my  only  love  :  he  has  come, — my 
father.  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  Gypsy  chief 
who  means  to  be  the  savior  of  our  tribe.  He 
calls  on  me  to  live  only  for  his  great  end ;  nay, 
to  die  for  it.  I  die  in  leaving  you:  all  that  lives 
henceforth  is  the  poor  Zincala." 

She  rose  when  she  had  written  this. 

"  Father,  now  I  am  ready  to  wed  my  people's 
lot,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"  To  wed  a  crown !"  he  cried.  "  "We  will  make 
our  people's  lot  royal !     Come,  my  Queen  !" 

As  she  started  to  go  her  eye  caught  her  be- 
trothal ring. 

"  Stay,"  she  said ;  "  one  kiss, — farewell !  O 
love,  you  were  my  crown.  All  others  are  but 
thorns  on  my  poor  woman's  brow." 

lY. 

In  a  hollow  between  the  hills,  far  southward 
from  Bedniar,  and  where  the  Moorish  watch- 
towers  stand  like  tall  white  sails  on  a  shadowy 
green  bay,  there  was  a  cluster  of  swarthy  little 
tents  such  as  our  fathers  raised  of  old  on  the 
Asian  plains.  They  swarmed  close  together 
about  two  taller  tents,  and  in  their  midst  there 
was  busy  and  bright-eyed  life :  tall  girls  feeding 
goats ;  women  with  babes ;  tiny  urchins  crawl- 
ing about  or  gurgling  forth  their  infant  gayety  ; 
lads    lying   sphinx-like  on  their   elbows,  their 


224  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

black  manes  tossed  back,  as  they  flung  up  the 
coin  and  watched  its  fall ;  others  running  to 
l^lague  their  grandsires,  who  returned  with 
rabbits  slung  on  their  backs,  guiding  the  fruit- 
laden  mules. 

On  a  pleasant  spot  somewhat  removed  from 
the  hubbub  lay  Juan  asleep.  The  sly  maidens  of 
the  camp  were  tiptoeing  about  him  with  ill-sup- 
pressed fun,  stealing  piece  by  piece  his  dis- 
carded apparel.  He  awoke  at  a  more  audacious 
sally  than  usual  and  looked  sleepily  about  him. 
The  young  thieves  leaped  away,  and  he  threat- 
ened them  without  moving.  Then  at  last  he 
took  up  his  lute  and  played  a  few  notes.  The 
bare  brown  feet  could  not  resist.  But  he 
stopped  abruptly,  and  would  not  go  on  until 
oneof  his  belongings  had  been  returned.  So  by 
alternate  playing  and  stopping  he  regained  his 
hat,  his  feather,  his  belt,  his  scarf,  his  buttons, 
and  his  rosettes.  Then  Hinda  ran  up,  crying, 
"  Our  Queen,  our  Queen !"  Juan  adjusted  his 
garments  and  his  lute,  and  Fedalma  approached, 
wearing  a  Moorish  dress,  her  black  hair  hang- 
ing around  her  in  plaits,  and  a  dagger  at  her 
side.  She  carried  a  scarf  on  her  left  arm,  which 
she  held  uj5  as  a  shade. 

Juan  knelt  to  take  up  the  edge  of  her  cymar, 
and  kissed  it. 

''  You  look  sad,  lady,"  he  said. 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  225 

"  I  am  sick  at  heart,  my  good  Juan,  and  you 
are  cruel.  You  choose  to  hide  something  I  long 
to  know." 

"I,  lady?" 

"You!  You  know  how  many  leagues  this 
camp  lies  from  Bedmar,  what  mountains  are 
between,  and  could,  if  you  would,  tell  me  about 
the  Duke :  that  he  is  comforted,  and  sees  how 
he  has  gained  by  losing  the  Zincala, — no,  that  is 
false !    He  could  never  think  lightly  of  our  love." 

Juan  assured  her  that  he  knew  nothing,  that 
her  father  trusted  no  secrets  to  the  echoes,  and 
that  of  late  his  movements  had  been  hidden 
from  all.  Then  the  troubadour  offered  to  sing, 
but  she  thanked  him,  saying  her  soul  was 
clogged  with  self:  she  could  not  listen. 

"  Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  Juan ;  but 
come  again  with  the  lengthening  shadows." 

As  Juan  wandered  along  the  stream,  there 
came  a  ringing  shout  from  the  tents.  Fedalma 
rose  at  once  and  listened.  It  was  her  father. 
She  saw  him  advancing.  When  he  came  near 
her  a  sudden  sunshine  was  sent  forth  from  his 
terrible  eyes.  He  tenderly  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder  and  kissed  her  brow. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  stolen  the  time,  and 

made  a  forced  march  to  see  her  and  give  her 

tidings  of  jiromise.     Berber  ships  were  to  take 

them    to    Africa,   with    abundant    spoil,   won 

III.— P 


226  Tales  from  Ten  Foefs. 

bravely  by  service  done  on  the  Spaniards.  El 
Zagal  trusted  him,  rated  his  counsel  high,  and 
desired  him  to  plead  his  cause  in  Africa.  Thus 
the  Moor  was  the  more  willing  to  further  their 
pilgrimage. 

They  talked  of  the  future,  which  was  to  be 
80  brave,  to  fulfil  so  many  dreams,  and  of  their 
people,  whom  they  loved ;  then,  at  last,  he  went 
from  her  to  the  tents  to  give  his  orders  to 
Nadar,  his  lieutenant,  before  hastening  back. 

"  The  stars  and  young  moon  must  see  me  at 
my  post,"  he  said.  "But  you  must  rest  here. 
Farewell,  my  younger  self, — shall  I  live  in  you 
when  the  earth  covers  me  ?" 

"  Death  should  make  your  will  divine  to  me," 
she  said,  fervently.  "  Kiss  me  now,  and  when 
you  see  fair  hair,  oh,  be  pitiful !" 

He  embraced  her  and  strode  away.  After 
watching  him  disappear  among  the  tents,  she 
seated  herself  on  the  bank,  leaned  her  head 
forward,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  drapery. 

While  she  mused  thus,  a  figure  came  out  from 
the  olive-trees  and  paused  at  seeing  her  there, 
then  slowly  moved  forward  with  careful  steps. 
A  voice  said,  gently, — 

"  Fedalma !" 

Fearing  that  fancy  had  overcome  her  senses, 
she  quivered  and  rose  up,  but  did  not  turn. 

"  Fedalma,  it  is  Silva !" 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  227 

Then  she  turned.  He  beamed  on  her  like 
morning,  with  bare  head  and  entreating  arms. 
She  paused  one  instant,  then,  with  a  motion  as 
inevitable  as  a  stream's,  she  found  rest  on  his 
bosom. 

"  O  love,"  she  murmured,  "  you  are  living  and 
believe  in  me !" 

"  Once  more  we  are  together !''  he  said,  with 
deep  emotion. 

"  You  did  not  hate  me,  then, — think  me  an 
ingrate, — that  I  forsook  you  ?" 

"  Dear,  I  trusted  you  as  holy  men  trust  in 
God.  You  had  the  less  trust,  because  you  sus- 
pected mine.     'Twas  wicked  doubt." 

"Nay;  when  I  saw  you  hating  me,  the  fault 
seemed  in  my  lot, — my  bitter  birthright.  Then 
I  said,  It  is  better  so.  He  will  be  happier! 
But  that  thought  struggling  to  be  a  hope  ended 
in  tears." 

"  It  was  a  cruel  thought,  Fedalma.  Happier  ! 
True  misery  is  not  begun  until  I  cease  to  love 
you." 

"Silva!" 

They  stood  a  moment  or  two  in  silence. 

"  But  tell  me  how  you  came  ?"  she  asked. 
"Where  are  your  guards?  Is  there  no  risk? 
and — now  I  look — ^this  is  a  strange  garb." 

"  I  came  alone." 

"  Alone  1" 


y 


228  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  Yes, — fled  in  secret.  There  was  no  other 
way  to  find  you  safely." 

She  let  one  hand  fall  and  moved  a  little  from 
him  with  a  look  of  terror.  Then  he  clasped 
her  more  firmly  with  the  other  arm. 

"  Silva !"  she  murmured,  in  dread. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  returned.  "  I  am  here, 
and  that  is  enough.  Now  we  will  cling  to- 
gether, and  no  power  can  hinder  us !" 

"  Our  joy  is  dead  and  only  smiles  on  us,"  she 
sighed. 

"  Is  your  love  growing  faint,  then  ?"  he  asked, 
half  playfully.  "  Love  supreme  defies  dream- 
terrors  and  avenging  fires.  I  have  risked  all 
things.   But  your  love  is  faint-hearted,  dearest." 

"  Silva,"  she  said,  with  resolution,  "  if  a  naked 
sword  came  between  us, — if  it  severed  my  arm 
and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, — even  then  this 
poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword " 

As  if  in  fulfilment  of  her  words  a  naked 
blade  was  on  the  instant  thrust  between  them. 
Don  Silva  let  go  her  hand  and  grasped  his 
sword.  Fedalma  started  at  first,  but  stood 
firmly  anon,  as  if  prepared  to  interpose  between 
the  combatants. 

It  was  Zarca,  who  had  stolen  up  unseen  be- 
hind them,  and  who  now  spoke  scornfully  to 
the  Duke. 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  229 

"  Ay,  it  is  a  sword  baptized  in  Christian  blood 
that  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala.  My 
Lord  Duke,  I  was  a  guest  in  your  fortress  once, 
against  my  will.  I  had  entertainment  like  a 
galley-slave.  Have  you  come  to  the  Zincala's 
camp  for  a  fit  return ?  or  to  make  amends?" 

"Chief,"  said  the  Duke,  calmly,  "I  have 
brought  no  scorn  to  answer  yours  with.  I 
came  because  love  urged  me, — love  for  her 
whom  you  call  your  daughter." 

"  Doubtless  you  bring  your  men-at-arms  for 
the  final  ars-ument?"  insinuated  the  chief 

"  I  came  alone,"  said  Don  Silva,  fearlessly. 
"The  only  force  I  bring  with  me  is  tenderness." 

Thus,  with  manly  simplicity  and  courage  on 
the  one  side  and  fierce  suspicion  on  the  other, 
the  two  enemies  continued  their  colloquy,  half 
forgetful  of  the  innocent  cause  of  it,  who  stood 
at  their  side.  Don  Silva  at  last  grew  passionate 
in  his  appeal. 

"This  sweet  virgin,"  he  cried,  "reared  like 
the  garden  flowers  to  give  the  sordid  world  a 
glimpse  of  perfection, — you  snatch  her  away 
and  thrust  her  out  in  dreary  wilds, — and  for 
what?  You  say  you  would  be  the  savior  of 
your  tribe, — say,  rather,  you  have  the  will  to 
save  men  by  ruling  them,  and  the  first  wound 
you  make  with  that  flinty  will  is  a  gash  in  your 
own  child's  bosom !" 

20 


230  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  You  are  loud,  my  lord,"  said  the  Gypsy, 
with  calm  irony.  "  You  have  a  heart, — I,  none. 
Fedalma's  good  is  what  you  care  for,  while  I 
seek  her  ruin.  She  is  my  only  offspring.  If 
she  can  leave  her  tribe  for  silken  shame,  then 
let  her  go !     Now  choose,  Fedalma !" 

Her  choice  was  made  slowly  as  her  father 
spoke.  She  moved  from  where  she  stood  be- 
tween them  with  pleading  hands,  to  choose  the 
sublime  pain  of  duty.  She  was  wrought  upon 
by  awe.  Her  own  brief  Hfe  seemed  but  a  little 
island  very  remote  through  the  visions  of  the 
wide  world  about  it.  She  stood  apart  from 
both,  yet  near  her  father, 

"  My  lord,  farewell,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "  It 
was  well  we  met  once  again.  Now  we  must 
part.  I  think  we  had  the  whole  of  love's  joy 
in  knowing  we  loved  each  other." 

"  I  thought  we  loved  with  a  love  that  clings 
till  death,"  he  said,  with  imploring  arms 
stretched  out, 

"Silva,"  she  murmured,  "it  is  fate.  Fare- 
well, dear ;  I  must  go  to  my  people." 

She  reached  forth  the  tender  hands  which 
had  so  often  lain  in  his ;  but  he  stood  as  still  as 
death.     The  chief  was  silent  and  unchangeable, 

"  No,"  said  Silva,  at  last.  "  I  can  never  take 
those  hands  and  then  let  them  go  forever," 

"  It  must  be,"  she  said. 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  231 

"  My  Lord  Duke,"  broke  in  the  impatient  chief, 
"  I  have  given  room  for  speech,  because  I  de- 
sired my  daughter  shoukl  make  her  own  choice. 
But  now  all  further  words  are  idle.  You  are 
here  with  the  safe-conduct  of  the  trust  you 
showed  us  in  coming  unguarded,  but  you 
must  now  accept  our  escort  back  to  the  Moor- 
ish bounds." 

"  I  faced  all  risks  to  find  Fedalma,"  said  the 
Duke,  "and  I  here  declare  that  I  choose  to 
abide  with  her  and  adopt  her  lot,  only  claiming 
fulfilment  of  her  vows  to  be  my  wife." 

Fedalma  wrestled  herself  from  her  father 
and  stood  opposite  the  Duke  with  a  look  of 
terror. 

"No,  Silva,  no!"  she  cried.  "You  could  not 
live  so.  You  shall  not  spring  from  your  high 
place !" 

"  Yes,  I  have  said  it !"  he  replied,  deliberately ; 
then  turning  to  Zarca:  "And  you,  chief,  are 
bound  by  her  vows !" 

The  chief  was  softened  by  the  Duke's  noble 
purpose ;  yet  he  painted  in  grim  colors  all  the 
hazards  and  sacrifices  of  the  lot  he  had  chosen. 
Nothing,  however,  could  shake  Silva's  resolu- 
tion. His  heart  swayed  all  things,  and  his 
heart  was  given  to  Fedalma. 

When  Zarca  had  exhausted  all  his  arguments 
of  dissuasion,  he  strode  towards  the  camp  to 


232  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

prepare  his  followers  for  the  ceremony  of  ad- 
mitting Don  Silva  to  their  fellowship.  The 
Duke  caught  Fedalma's  hands  ;  but  she  seemed 
dazed  by  what  he  had  spoken,  and  pleaded  with 
him  to  retreat  while  there  was  time.  But  his 
resolution  was  fixed.  Life,  he  said,  would  be 
no  gain  to  him  if  he  were  robbed  of  her.  He 
would  go  straight  to  the  Moorish  walls,  chal- 
lenge their  bravest,  and  seek  death. 

As  they  talked  together  in  a  calmer  mood, 
the  chief  approached,  bringing  his  swarthy 
followers.  When  their  ceremonies  were  finished, 
Don  Silva  solemnly  took  the  vows  and  was 
adopted  into  the  tribe. 

V. 

There  was  a  great  crowd  of  soldiers  and 
towns-people  in  the  Pla^a  Santiago  at  Bedmar, 
They  gathered  about  the  central  space,  but  on 
the  higher  ground  in  front  of  the  church  there 
was  a  stake  with  fagots  heaped  around  it,  and 
a  gibbet.  As  the  crowd  swayed  impatiently 
back  and  forth,  the  chief,  Zarca,  came  into  its 
midst  accompanied  by  a  small  band  of  armed 
Zincali.  He  wore  the  Gypsy  badge  over  the 
dress  of  a  Moorish  captain.  The  Moorish  king, 
in  whose  service  the  chief  had  borne  arms  at 
the  capture  of  Bedmar,  had  given  him  com- 
mand of  the  town  and  fort. 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  233 

Zarca  addressed  the  throng,  and  swayed  them 
with  a  fiery  eloquence.  He  appealed  to  their 
hatred  of  the  Duke  and  of  Father  Isidor.  They 
greeted  him  with  huzzas  and  cries  of  "  Long 
life  to  Zarca !" 

In  the  midst  of  the  cheering  Nadar  appeared, 
and  advanced  towards  his  chief  till  he  was  near 
enough  to  speak  with  him  in  an  undertone. 
He  told  Zarca  he  had  obeyed  his  commands, 
that  he  had  brought  his  band  and  the  Spanish 
prisoner. 

"  But  the  sleek  hound  who  slipped  his  collar 
off  to  join  the  wolves "  growled  Nadar. 

"  What  of  him  ?" 

"  He  is  raging  at  the  fall  of  the  town ;  says 
all  his  friends  are  butchered.  I'd  sooner  be  the 
dog  of  a  murdered  Gypsy  and  howl  for  him, 
than  be  this  Duke !" 

"  There !  Enough !"  said  the  chief  "  Did 
you  give  him  my  command  to  wait  in  the 
castle  till  I  saw  him  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  he  defied  me,  and  broke  away. 
He  may  soon  be  here.  I  came  to  warn  you. 
He  will  surely  work  us  harm  !" 

"  Do  not  fear,"  said  Zarca.  "  The  road  I 
travel  by  has  no  surprises.  But  you  were  right, 
Nadar,  for  here  he  comes."  The  chief  pointed 
across  the  crowd  to  Silva,  who  approached 
bareheaded,    carrying    an   unsheathed    sword. 

20* 


234  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

The  Gypsy  badge  was  still  on  his  breast  where 
he  was  wont  to  wear  the  cross.  He  came  on- 
ward as  if  driven  by  some  invisible  chase, 
straight  to  Zarca. 

"  Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel !"  he  cried. 
"  It  was  a  bitter  wrong  to  conceal  this  from 
me,  to  stand  with  waking  eyes  and  see  me  shed 
the  blood  of  my  kin  in  a  dream.  You  never 
warned  me  that  you  were  allied  with  the  Moor 
to  take  my  town,  slay  the  heir  of  my  house,  and 
my  friend  and  chosen  brother.  You  have  dese- 
crated the  ver}^  church  where  my  mother  once 
held  me  in  her  arms !" 

"  I  warned  you  of  the  consequences  of  your 
oath  and  you  did  not  shrink,"  answered  Zarca. 
"  I  am  no  priest  to  keep  consciences.  I  keep 
my  own  place  and  my  own  command.  Should 
I,  because  of  one  unstable  Spaniard,  quit  my 
ends,  renounce  my  daughter  and  the  hope  of 
my  people  ?" 

"  Your  daughter  !"  wailed  the  Duke.  "  Oh, 
great  God !  I  am  mad.  The  past  will  never 
change.  Chief, — this  stake.  Tell  me  who  is  to 
die  !     The  town  is  yours.     Let  me  save  my " 

"  Peace !"  cried  Zarca.    "  Here  is  the  prisoner." 

Every  one  turned  to  see  him.  It  was  Father 
Isidor.  He  was  bareheaded  and  frocked  ;  but 
a  rope  was  around  his  neck.  He  bore  a  cru- 
cifix in  his  hand,  and  gazed  eai'uestly  on  it,  his 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  235 

lips  moving  in  constant  prayer.  His  guards 
parted  in  front  and  paused  as  they  approached 
the  centre  where  the  stake  was.  He  lifted  his 
eyes  then  to  look  around  him,  calmly  prepared 
to  speak  his  last  words  of  willingness  to  die. 
But  his  glance  met  Silva's,  and  it  drew  him 
from  his  holy  contemplation.  Silva  moved  for- 
ward in  penitence,  and  would  have  knelt  before 
the  man  who  was  still  one  with  all  the  sacred 
things  that  now  came  back  upon  him.  But  the 
Father  would  not  permit  him  to  kneel.  He 
thrust  the  cross,  with  a  deprecating  gesture, 
before  the  Duke,  and  his  pale  face  flashed  forth 
a  horror  at  Silva's  act. 

"  Back  from  me,  defile  mo  not !"  he  cried. 
"  Thou  foulest  murderer !  Fouler  than  Cain,  for 
thou  hast  opened  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come 
through  and  tear  the  weak  and  strong  alike.  I 
warned  you  of  this  end.  Oh,  most  wretched 
mortal !  whose  memory  shall  be  of  oaths  broken 
for  lust.  I  turn  my  eyes  forever  from  you.  The 
stake  is  ready.    I  also  am  ready." 

"  It  shall  never  be !"  cried  the  Duke.  He  raised 
his  sword  and  rushed  in  front  of  the  guards,  who 
were  advancing.  "  If  you  are  human,  chief, 
hear  my  demand !" 

"  Stand  aside  !  Put  up  your  sword !"  said 
Zarca.  "  You  vowed  obedience  to  me  as  j'our 
chief.     It  was  your  latest  vow." 


236  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

"  ]^o !  If  he  must  burn,  hew  me  from  the 
spot !     Fasten  me  among  the  fagots !" 

"  His  fate  is  fixed !"  said  Zarca,  with  an  im- 
perious wave  of  the  hand  to  the  Gypsy  guard. 
They  closed  about  the  Prior  and  led  him  up  to 
the  gibbet  behind  the  chief. 

Then  Silva  sheathed  his  weapon.  He  strode 
up  to  Zarca  and  proudly  demanded  to  suffer  in 
place  of  the  priest. 

"  Slake  your  hate  upon  me,"  he  cried,  "  and 
I  will  thank  you." 

"  I  am  your  chief,"  said  Zarca.  "  I  do  not 
hate  you.  To  me  you  are  but  a  Zincala  in 
revolt." 

"  I  am  no  Zincala !  I  took  the  name  in 
madness  !  I  disown  it !  Look !  I  tear  this 
badge  away.  I  am  a  Catholic  knight,  a  Span- 
iard who  will  die  like  a  Spaniard !" 

As  the  Duke  tore  off  the  badge  and  trampled 
it  under  his  feet,  he  heard  a  shout  which  ar- 
rested his  fury.  He  could  not  tell  whether  it 
bore  him  a  threat  or  not ;  but  he  looked  up 
with  joy,  seeking  a  foe  to  wreak  his  rage  upon. 
His  eye  caught  the  form  of  Father  Isidor 
swinging  aloft  in  convulsive  throes.  Then  he 
knew  the  shout  to  be  the  exultation  of  the  crowd 
over  the  death  of  a  malefactor,  and,  in  his  fevered 
mind,  the  white-froeked  body  served  to  accuse 
him  of  murder.     It  was  a  symbol  of  his  guilt, 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  237 

and  stirred  tremors  within  him  until  then  dor- 
mant. 

With  a  sudden  snatch  at  something  hidden 
in  his  breast,  he  bore  down  upon  the  chief. 
Zarca  fell  under  his  impetuous  thrust.  The 
Duke  heard  neither  the  Gypsies  shriek  nor  felt 
their  fierce  grasp.  As  he  staggered  back,  Zarca's 
words  were  alone  audible  to  him. 

"  Call  my  daughter !"  he  groaned  as  he  fell. 

Nadar  rushed  to  the  chief's  side  and  held 
him  in  his  arms. 

"Tie  the  Spaniard  to  the  stake!"  he  cried, 
as  the  Gypsies  leaped  upon  Silva. 

They  swiftly  did  as  the  Lieutenant  com- 
manded, then  gathered  about  their  fallen  leader, 
hushed  and  eager  to  save  the  life  so  precious 
to  their  cause.  The  outer  circle  spoke  only 
in  low  murmurs.  Some  climbed  to  perilous 
places,  striving  to  see  where  the  colossal  life  lay 
panting  away. 

The  morning  cast  its  blue  shadows  across  the 
white  walls  above,  and  with  a  clear-cut  line 
as  relentless  as  the  dial-hands,  measured  the 
shrinking  hours.  All  the  while  the  silent  time- 
beat  in  each  heart  ached  in  deep  pulsations. 

Suddenly  the  outer  crowd  moved  open  and  a 
cry  went  up : 

"  She  is  coming  !     She  is  coming  !" 

As  swiftly  as  on  that  evening  not  so  long 


238  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

ago,  when  she  had  danced  there,  Fedalma  came 
rapidly  across  the  square.  But  now  it  was 
woe  that  brought  her.  She  had  divined  all : 
the  stake  with  the  Duke  bound  upon  it;  her 
father  wounded  on  the  ground.  She  was  born 
to  this,  she  thought.  Her  father  summoned  her 
a  second  time  to  her  life-task. 

She  knelt  down  by  Zarca.  He  raised  him- 
self, and  his  eyes  flashed  upon  her  face  a  light 
as  from  a  waning  star  which  flames  out  anew 
in  dissolution. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  painfully,  "you 
have  promised, — you  will  live  only  to  save  our 
people  ?  I  carry  here" — he  pointed  to  his 
bosom — "  written  pledges  from  the  Moor  that 
he  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa.  Your 
weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength. 
You  will  win  more  love.  I  cannot  tell  what 
the  end  will  be,  I  held  my  people's  good  in 
my  heart.  Now  I  deliver  it  to  you.  Else  up 
and  tell  our  people  that  I  wait — in  pain.  I  can- 
not die  until  1  hear  them  vow  to  obey  you." 

She  pressed  her  lips  solemnly  on  his  brow  as 
if  to  seal  her  pledges.  Then  she  rose  firmly 
and  met  her  people's  eyes  with  a  gaze  flashing 
as  darkly  as  their  own. 

"  Your  chief  is  dying !"  she  said  in  a  clear 
voice.  "  I,  his  daughter,  live  to  do  his  will. 
Ho  asks  you  to  promise  now  to  obey  me,  your 


The  Spanish  Gypsy.  239 

queen,  that  we  may  gain  the  land  he  has  won 
for  us." 

A  shout  of  assent  arose  which  sharpened  into 
cries  that  seemed  to  plead  with  death. 

"  We  will  obey  our  queen !  Our  chief  shall 
not  die  !"  and  they  pressed  about  her,  striving 
to  kiss  the  hem  of  her  gown.  She  raised  a  hand 
to  quiet  them. 

"  Hush  !     Your  chief  speaks  !" 

Zarca  grasped  at  Nadai-'s  arm  and  spoke 
loud,  like  one  who  has  fought  and  conquered. 

"Let  the  Spaniard  loose!  Give  him  his 
sword.  He  cannot  do  more  vengeance.  His 
soul  is  locked  between  two  opposing  crimes." 

Having  uttered  this,  the  chief  sank  back 
again,  his  breast  heaving  violently. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  groaned,  "  lay  your  arm 
under  my  head — so ;  bend  and  breathe  on  me. 
I  cannot  see  you.  Night  has  come.  Be  strong 
— remember — I  can  only — die." 

His  voice  went  out  into  silence,  but  his 
breast  continued  to  heave  and  moan.  Its 
broad  strength  kept  a  life  that  saw  and  heard 
nothing  saving  what  once  had  been  and  what 
might  be  in  days  and  realms  far  onward.  She 
bent  above  him  unceasingly,  though  she  knew 
that  hurrying  feet  had  gone  to  do  his  behest. 
In  her  soul  she  felt  that  he  who  had  been  its 
lord  was  being  jarred  with  loosened  cords,  but 


240  Tales  from  Ten  Poets. 

these  could  never  relax  the  torture  of  his 
anguish.  She  knelt  there  clinging  with  piety 
and  awed  resolution  beside  this  altar  of  her 
father's  life,  seeing  long  travel  under  the  solemn 
sun  stretch  beyond  it.  She  never  turned  her 
eyes,  yet  she  felt  that  Silva  passed  by  her.  She 
beheld  his  face,  vivid  and  pale,  imploring  her 
across  fathomless  black  waters. 

As  the  Duke  passed  the  Gypsies  made  a  wide 
pathway  and  shrank  aloof  from  him,  as  if  they 
dreaded  to  touch  a  thing  they  hated.  Hate, 
growing  triumphant,  and  mastering  them, 
might  tear  and  crush  in  spite  of  the  hindering 
will.  He  walked  slowly,  as  if  reluctant  to  be 
safe  and  bear  a  dishonored  life,  which  nobody 
assailed.  The  Pla^a  was  silent,  as  if  it  had 
hushed  itself  to  hear  his  footsteps  and  the 
chiefs  dying  breath.  And  yet  he  could  not 
pass  without  pausing  an  instant  to  look  at 
her.  With  a  glance  at  her  averted  head  he 
turned  and  went  away,  carrying  with  him  for- 
ever her  murdered  love. 


END   OP   BOOK   III. 


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